
Book >K.^ 




CONSOLATIONS 

/ 

OF THE 

WRITTEN BY 



FREDERICK AUGUSTUS KEMPER, A. m 



A NATIVE OF OHIO. 



«0 thou afflicted, tossed with tempest and not comforted, behold, I will lay thy stones 
with fair colors and lay thy foundations with saphires. And I will make thy wiit- 
4ows of agates, and thy gates of carbuncles, and all thy borders of pleasant stones '' 

^'JVon ignarus mail, miseris succurrere disco.'''' 
-Not ignorant of evil, I learn to succor the miserable. 



'•Light are the pains that nature brings; 

How short our sorrows are, 
Wl)en with eternal future things 

The present wi^compare!" 



r 



'•Wherefore, let them that suffer according to the will of God, commit the keeping Of 
their souls to hnn in well doing, as unto a faithful Creator." 



PRINTED BY WM. J. FERRIS & CO. 



CINCINNATI. 



District of Ohio^ to-wit, 

BE fT REMEMBERED, That on the 30th day Of June 

[J- (^ 1 Anno Domini, 18:'l, Frederick' Augustus Kemper, of the said district, hath 
^* ^*j deposited in this office, the title of a hook, the title of which is in the words 
folio - ng, to-wit: 

"CV isolations of the afflicted. Written by Frederick Ausrustus Kemper, A. "^ . A 
native of Ohio." '*0 thou afflicted, tossed with tempesf and not comforted, behold, I 
will lay thy stones with fair colors, and lay thy foundations with saphires, and'l will 
make thy windows of agates, and thy gates of carbuncles, and all thy borders of pleas- 
ant stones," ^ ^^ 
: . **J^on ig-narns mali, miseris succurrere disco.^' 

Not ignorant of evil, I learn to succor the miserable. 
"Light are the pains that nature brings; 

How sliort our sorrows are. 
When with eternal future things 
The present we compare!'' 
''Wherefore let them that suffer according to the will of God, oommit the keeping 

of their souls to him in well doing, as unto a faithful Creator." 

The right whereof he claims as author, in conformity with an act of Congress entitled , 

"An act to amend the several acts respecting copy rights." 

Attest 

WILLIAM MINER, 

Clerk of the District. 

Ills the design of the author (should his work be acceptable) to travel throughout the 
United States, for the purpose of disposing of it. 



fr^ 



> 



•4 

^ 



This little book is most humbly, most sincerely 
and most deTOUtly dedicated to the Care, Protection 
and Patronage of the "God of all comfort,'' in be- 
half, and for the use and benefit of all the Afflicted 
of my Nation, the United States of America — by 
the Author. 

May God in whom I "live, and move, and 
have my being,'' enable me ever to^-li\feand move," 
yea, and to die vs^orthy of — even the sentiments of 
this book. 

R A. K. 



#^' 



>«r 



CONTENTS: 



1st. For a patient seized with violent illness, and manifestly 
threatened with death. 

2nd. For a chronic patient. 

To the view of the first of these, standing over his bed side, I 
attempt briefly to bring up all the substantial consolations that 
creation, providence, and religion furnish to the human mind. 
To the second, I bring up the same in a far more enlarged 
manner. 

3d. For the young in affliction. 

Here I attend to the peculiciriiy of their case as youthful suf- 
ferers. — And, in like manner, to the peculiarities of the cases of 
all that follow. 

4th. For the poor in affliction. 

the vicious in affliction, 
parents in affliction, 
the rich in affliction, 
the stranger in affliction, 
the 8ged in affliction, 
those afflicted with the afflictions of others. 
The 11th and lastj is a long article — For the melancholy. 



5th. 


For 


6th. 


For 


•7th. 


For 


8th, 


For 


9th. 


For 


10th 


. For 



PREFACE, 



THE sick and afflicted have always been, are now, and 
gnosi ;iliely will continue to be, a very lar^e class of the hu- 
Hfi.in family. The Ipneiiness, unpleasantness, pain and wretch- 
ness of a sick person, coritined to his room, or even of an afBict- 
iBd person that is not entirely thus confined, are exceedis.gly 
great, and known only to those who are in this condition, or 
who have passed through such a scene. 

This unhappy class of our race, as is right, have always re- 
ceived a large share of the sympathies, kind offices and labo- 
rious efforts of others. To them, another class, the doctors, 
are devoted They serve them particularly, as it respects 
medicine, prescriptions, &c. f r the restoration of their bodies, 
and do not entirely neglect their minds, but sometimes drop an 
en^'ouraging word by wav of uiodicine for their drooping spirits. 

This they cannot do at length, because, by their practice they 
make their livnig, and cann^'t delay, but must pass on from one 
to another Indeed, they are not the most suitable persons to 
uadertake it, from the fact, ihat by constantly witnessing the 
sufferings of others, their sympathies become blunted and har- 
dened; and also, many of them are otherwise not qualitied in a 
moral point of view. 

Physicians uni>ersally admit the great and commanding in- 
fluence of J he mind over the body in sickness. They hare 
written volumes almost innumerable on medical science. — 
Nearly all the rontenis of these volumes are devoted to the bodyi 
Sk)nie small p?rts to the miud. 

1 have neither seen nor heard of more than one book in the 
Eni»iish language, e^pres.^!y written tor the minds of the sick 
aul afflicted. This <>ae was wriuen one hundr d and three 
years a«^ ;., ia S-' vJand. My v/ork was n'j »;u half accomplish- 
pd, before 1 knew of na exis'.ence. 1 imniediutely deterniinedl 

1 



Vi. PREFAGE. 

not to seek for it, nor read it, until I had finished my ©wb^ 
vvhich I did not. The plans of the two are as different as they 
can be. In the gieat cause of instructing, sympathizing with, 
und encouraging the afflicted, it will be impossible for their in- 
lorference with one another to be any other than happy. The 
author of the old one says nothing about his having been 
alHicted himself, previous to his writing for the afPacted. 

In this I have the advantage of him. As is mentioned in the 
beginning of my work, I had been afflicted nearly five years 
l.efore I commenced it. At the time of my commencing, I 
•vas just rising, and that very slowly, from a violent, and 
threatening, and lasting attack of my diseases; by which 1 was 
brought very low, and kept so for a length of time, so that I 
looked death in the face, as near at hand, and hung on to life by 
a truly brittle thread. Being a little restored, I succeeded in 
my attempts to walk, with feeble steps, out on to the south 
porch of the house where I lived, on one of our finest days of 
February, 1828, with a design of getting another view of crea- 
tion, particularly to see the sun, the Hdng of day," which hap- 
pened at that time to be shining in all his splendor. 

While there seated, and feeling his cheering rays, and behold- 
ing the heavens and the earth, and being thereby a little reviv- 
'^d and consoled, a thought came into my mind, that it would 
be well for me in my afflicted and disconsolate condition, to 
turn my attention, whenever I had strength enough, to all the 
consolatory things, and thoughts, and considerations, which I 
could find in the universe, in order to console my mind. A 
r:;2cond thought arose, that it would be well, as I found them, 
to write them down, that I might use them in time to come. A 
third thought followed, that it would also be well to take some 
_care and observe some order in writing them down, so that I 
miojhtshow them to others who mioht be afflicted. The fourth 
and last in the train was, that it was possible (as 1 had spent 
many years and much labor in getting an education) for me 
to make the writing worthy of the public eye ; and thus more 
extensively to do good to mankind and myself, not only as it 
respected the consoling of my mind, but the procuring of a 
living for my body. 

For a length of time I most seriously considered the matter, 
and the more 1 considered it, the more clearly it appeared to be 
my duty to undertake it. In short, I felt myself to be shut up 
lo it, by Providence; and eternity will be too short for me to 
^^xpress all the gratitude I feel to God, for enabling me, under my 
'^xtreme weakness and great sufferings, to accomplish my under- 
taking. I mean what I say, and much more than 1 can say. 



TREFACE. Vii, 

The whole is a personal, practical address. The writer (with 
one exception) is the speaker, standing over the bed side, or in 
the presence of the patient. In every case the patient is fully 
described. In the first case till his life is despaired of, and then 
he is addressed at length concerning death, to prepare his mind 
for it and reconcile him to it. All absurd notions about death 
are beaten from about him. He is told what not to expect, and 
what to expect; and much light is thrown on the subject. The 
chronic patient dies, and his death is described. My aim was 
to have the language and style of the whole, plain, ea.sy, fami- 
liar and affectionate. The article for the melancholy may be 
an exception ; because necessity compelled me to describe their 
disease by many of the technical terms of medical science. — 
This may be admissible from the fact, that melancholy is gen- 
erally a characteristic of mental greatness. Such are studious 
and learned, and can easily understand what I have written, 
I entertain an humble hope, that it will be extensively useful 
to them. 

Should my work prove to be worthy of public attention, the 
following may be some reasons why all classes, sick or well, 
should purchase it. 

It is written for all. The sick need it. The well are liable 
to be sick. All must die. It tells how to die, according to^ 
all and the best information possessed by man. The afflicted 9 
do not receive all that tender sympathy which they deserve, 
from those who bloom in health. This book may have a ten- 
dency to touch the sympathies of the healthy, and soften their 
hearts towards the afflicted. A person in health having a copy, 
may lend it to his fr.end or neighbor who may be afflicted. The 
rich ought to purchase, by way of benevolence, so as to bear 
the burden of the expense, and to have it to give to the afflicted, 
a large part of whom are poor. 

Many who are now in health have been sick, and then deep- 
ly felt the want of such a work — let them now purchase against 
the time of coming sickness and death. We live in the ^'New 
World.'' Our settlements are scattered, and many of thera 
found to be sickly. Hundreds of our fellow-citizens have been 
sick, and hundreds have died in our lonely deserts, none being 
there to speak unto their troubled spirits such words of conso- 
lation as are contained in this little volume. As they go out 
from us then, let them purchase it and take it with them. — 
Indeed, here, in the midst of our thickest population, multitudes 
are sick, and die around us, unvisited and unconsoled by any 
competent and suitable persons, the clergy themselves not 
being able to find time to visjt them. When neither they nor 



Viil. fREFACS. 

any other suitable friends can go to see them,mi^ht they no| 
recommend the reading of this little book in their hearing. ^ 

Our community cheerfully sustains a great number of poli- 
tical, and a few christian newspapers; besides several literary, 
medical, and theological periodicals and reviews. Can it be too 
much, modestly to ask a small part of the attention of the p ib- 
lic to a work for the afflicted? To the writer there appeared to 
be a chasm, a want of such a work. Whether he has produced 
one calculated to fill the chasm or not, he does not presume to 
decide. 1 have already submitted it to the criticism of an aged, 
worthy and able man, long well known here. He thinks it will 
be useful to society Nevertheless, I am well aware that the 
final and decisive test, is public opinion. And therefore, 1 most 
humbly, and, at the same time, most earnestly, ask a small 
share of public patronage, that it may be brought fully and 
feirly before this great and ultimate test. 

So prays the public^s most humble and most devoted servant^ 
and warm friend to man, ^nd most of all, to mail in affliction. 

The Authoe. 







COHSOIJLTIOH^ 



OP THE 



AFFLICTED, 



This world, might, with great propriety, be called, a world oT 
affliction. 

Such is the miserable condition of man, that if we should 
say, all men are afflicted, we would speak the truth. It is not 
common, however, to use the word in this unlimited sense. — 
Other words are used to express the generally wretched state 
of mankind. When we speak of the afflicted, we mean that 
large class of the human family which labours under some men- 
tal or bodily calamity, from which others are exempt. Neither 
is it common to call every slight calamity or disease, which lasts 
but a ohort time, an affliction. It is not usual to call even 
severe diseases afflictions, if they terminate soon, either by re- 
storation to health ox death. 1 shall, nowever, apply the term 
to this latter description, as I proceed. In its common accep- 
tation, it is applied to those who are deranged in their minds, 
and continue so; or to those who are very much diseased ia 
their bodies, and linger for a length of time. Sach are said 
to be afflicted. 

Insanity is generally thought to be the greatest temporal 
affliction, t » which man is subject. It is almost useless to tailf 
to crazy persons with <i view to comfort them. It must tht-re- 
fore, be entirely useless to attempt to write any thing for theix" 
consolation. The following hints and remarks are designed 
mainly, for the consolation of those who may be severely 
afflicted in their hollies; and for those who may linger long under 
affliction. I have myself, thus angered for nearly five year * 



"W 



0DNS9tATlON3 GP 



V'uring this time, (as you would naturally suppose ) my mind 
hus beeiz continHally seekmg consolation ; and I am happy in 
telling you, my dear fellow sufferers, that it has not sought 
in vain. 

In ever}^ stage of my diseases, notwithstanding the severity 
ofmv sutiermgs, I have been enabled to receive more or less 
cons; iation from one source or another. By this you are not to 
understand, that wy income of consolation hes been so great as 
to overcome and banish trouble and pain; but, only to sooth and 
mitigate these in some measure. For two or three yeai'S past, 
my aiiiictions have been greatly increased, through the want of 
suitable employment. I have had but one serious time of con- 
finement to bed. Excepting that, 1 have not been entirely inca- 
pable of some business. But to find such as 1 could do, which 
promised usefulness to myself and others, has been very diffi- 
cult. A few days ago, a thought came into my mind, (as I have 
said in my preface,) that it might, perhaps, be useful to myself 
and others who are afflicted, to collect together, and write dowa 
«ome of those things which are calculated to console the afflict- 
ed. Because I am afflicted myself, I have at least one of the 
best qualifications to write for the afflicted. Whether I have 
any more or not, others must judge. In speaking to them, it 
'Wili be in my power to speak from experience, seeing I have 
^^feit the same." It is my wish to make this little work as gen- 
erally useful as possible. I design, therefore, to address those 
»f several classes of mankind who may be in affliction. 

The christian community may be spvid to form one class. --^ 
I shall commence by addressing Christians who may be in 
affliction; awd shall proceed to some length in endeavouring to 
aid their meditation, and present to their view consoling thoughts 
and considerations. 

My Companions in affliction, with a feeling heart — with the 
tenderest sensibilities and sympathies, 1 would converse with 
you, freely and familiarly about the troubles that are upon you. 
Once you were in health, perhaps as contented and happy as it 
is common for persons to be in this world ; but now disease comee 
upon you with pains and sorrows. Immediately, you endeavouf 
to obtain relief for your body, and your mind seeks for comf >rfr 
and encouragement. There are only two great general sour* 
tes from which these can be obtained — this world and the next 
You may obtain them more or less from the things and beings 
which surround you, or from the next world, through the great 
ehannel of faith. 

I shall first speak of the assistance and consolation whick 
you may expect from this world, then of the next. My addresp 
i4i^U be personal. 



I 



5fHE AiPFtiCTfiB. It 

1. For a Patient seized with violent illness, and manifestlp 
threatened with death. 

My Afflicted Friend:— Four disease is sudden, and vio« 
lent, and alarming; you may need consolation in this world 
only for a few days or weeks. Be that as it may, your first 
thought is to send for the doctor. From him you hope for 
help and consolation. Happy is it for us, my friend, that ther© 
are such characters to whom we may send in the hour of dis- 
tress, in the day of calamity. When they are men of infor- 
mation, skill and candor, they know to a considerable extent 
the nature of diseases and the effects of medicme; and are in- 
deed a great source of consolation to the afflicted. 

Accordingly you send for one. The messenger goes in haste 
—finds him, — returns and- reports that he will be with you in a 
short time. This causes a glow of hope in your breast. As 
soon as he arrives he enters your room with a pleasant smile.—*- 
Your hope rises stiii higher. But my friend. I cannot forbear 
to tell you not to suffer it to rise too high, lest in a short time 
the stings of disappointment be added to your distresses, and 
your case be thereby made worse. 

The wisest may err, and the best of doctors often do. Be* 
sides, your disease may be too violent for any remedy. Howev*» 
er, he examines your case. Perhaps bleeds you, and gives you 
powerful medicine. Then particularly states his directions for 
you, — charges your nurse — encourages you to bear up — promi- 
ses to come again — bids you farewell, and leaves you. 

Your eyes are next turned to your nurse. If you have a 
skilful and faithful friend for a nurse, you may reasonably ex- 
pect as much consolation from such a one as from your physi- 
cian. A nurse should understand cookery ; therefore, females 
are the best. They are also m >re tender and faithful. If she 
is your relation — ^your sister, your mother, or your wife; we re» 
peat it, you may expect as much consolation from her as from 
any other earthly thing or being. If she possesses knowledge 
and experience, and especially, if she is a well informed good 
christian, she may indeed seem to you to be — **a guardian 
angel." 

The invariable maxim and practice of doctors is — '* first 
snake sick to make well.'* Your medicine added to your dis- 
ease makes you, from time to time very sick. Your pains and 
sorrows increase. You can tnke but little food, and it is not 
pleasant. You cannot sleep. Your nights are long, and drearVf 
and cheerless. You are restiei«s; yo . *'toss from side to side,'* 
and your thoughts are continually on tUe wing, seekino; cc-iso* 
lation* You look beyond your physician, and nurse and friendsj 



12 CONSOLATIONS OF 

You think of the busy scenes of life in which formerly you bore 
a part. You hope to recover and go about, or go out and bear 
your part again. You think the day may come, when you will 
be able to walk out doors and see the world again. Behold the 
sun, moon, and stars — the green and flourishing, and delightful 
vegetation, and all the animal creation, with man at their head. 
That you will again see, as well as hear, the lowinoj herds — the 
bleating flocks — the skipping lambs — the sportive dog and horse, 
and all the sons of men, actively stirring this way and that, 
to put forward their business, and gain a supply of food and 
raiment. You do well to indulge in such thoughts; they will 
soi)th your pains, beguile your sorrows, and afford you some 
consolation even in the darkest hours. 

But a week or two are now elapsed, and you get worse and 
worse; notwithstanding your physician, and nurse, and friends, 
have been exceedingly attentive and faithful. You are now 
reduced and weak — you feel weighed down and oppressed. It 
is night, and you long for morning. The day dawns, and you 
are regoiced to see the light. Your vigilant, and faithul, and 
kind nurse approaches your bed-side, and mildly asks you how 
you feel. Perhaps you reply, **a little better since day light." 
She washes your hands and face, and combs your hair, with all 
the kindness, and gentleness, of a mother with her infant. — 
Gives you drink. Then in haste, prepares you scoie mild and 
suitable food, which you think you can best take. You eat a 
little: — after that, some kind friends come in, and express their 
sympathies for you. They talk mildly and affectionately to you. 
Tell you what is going on. Perhaps are able to say, that some 
one is attending to your own business, and it is doing well. — 
They tell you all the news, and every thing that is encourag- 
ing. If they are wise they will not crowd your room, nor talk 
too long with you, lest you be overcome, and their visit do you 
more harm than good. You feel cheered and animated by their 
presence and conversation. They seem s j friendly, and men- 
tion so many encouraging circumstances that your pains are 
lulled in a good degree, and hope revives and brightens in your 
breast. In due time, they pleasantly bid you gf^od morning, 
and leave you to meditate upon the things which they have 
brought to your view You do so JTonfeei ofjiiged to them. 
You 'Shank God; aad take courage." Aft.r your thoughts have 
run their round, peihkps you feel composed, and fall asleep for 
a short time. When you.-' wake, vo i see your physician in the 
YOjm. He speaks r.-hoe ful y and lively to yo*i. You feel still 
more ref e^hed. He encourages you to hops^ f )i the best — in- 
quires after your condition — charges you to be patient, and calm 



THE AFFLICTED. IS-. 

as possible-tells you that by impatience you w©uld lose st^-engtk, 
and increase the disease. He mentions the things that are fa- 
vourable, seriously enjoins it upon you, not to let your thoughts 
pour over your disease, but to think of other things — then 
retires. 

In your hardest times, this last charge will seem to you very 
much like telling a dying man not to die. It is altogether cor- 
rect, however, I'he more you think about your disease, the 
more you will encourage it. You should " think more of the 
remedy, and of being well, it is your duty to strive to preserve 
and prolong your life. Accordingly, you endeavour to obey 
his injunction, difficult as it may be. The most active thing 
about a sick person, is his thoughts. There is but little he can 
do, except think. His thoughts fly like the *'wings of the morn- 
ing." They may almost be said to be in all places, and about 
every thing that he has ever seen or heard of, and innumerable 
things that he has not. You are now left to yourself, and you 
indulge in thinking, and you are so much better that it is not 
difficult to think about pleasant things. Accordingly, you now 
imagine to yourself, that you will yet see many good days 
upon the earth — that you will yet live to iSevvQ God and your 
generation, ^ length of time before you go henco. You think 
you will be able again to eat heartily, and enjoy your food^ — 
visit your friends and converse freely and sociably with them — 
behold with your eyes, (being out of your room,) the great and 
stupendous changes of day and night, and of spring, summer, 
autumn and winter, with the grateful and pleasing appearances, 
and peculiarities of each, as the wheels of time roll them round. 
You indulge a hope, that after a few weeks, or months, you v/ill 
again be active and pursue and accomplish your plans and 
ichemes of life. In short, that you will again be welt, and 
enjoy life. Such thoughts are lawful and right, and they bring 
in both strength and consolation. 

Neither is there any necessity for them to interfere with, or 
supercede thoughts about death and eternity. Every person, 
sick or well, that is old enough to think of these, should think 
©f them, and feel ready to die at a moment's warning. Under 
all circumstances life is perfectly uncertain. 

You are now getting along tolerably well. The sun sets and 
it grows dark in your room — preparation is made to let you try 
to sleep. You are enabled to sleep a good part of the night. — 
Next day still a little better. You and all friends and even the 
doctor feel in hopes that your disease is overcome, and will go off. 

This, however, does not prove to be tliQ fact. In a day or two 
more, it begins to rise again. This inevitably brings a gloom 



14 COXSOLATIOXS OF 

over your mind. You rernember the charge of the doctor not 
to pour over \ our disease, and your wretched condition. The old 
isaying — "that misery loves company," is true. If you were 
the only person that you had ever seen or heard of, that was 
miserable, you would directly fall into despair, and give up. 

But this is not the fact: — the whole worhi is miserable. — 
Your own eyes have seen it, from year to year. You have often 
seen the sick and afflicted. There is a certain text of scripture, 
which says — "but they measuring themselves by themselvesj 
and comparing themselves amon^r themselves, are not wise." — 
That is. when they do it to draw the conclusion, that they are 
better than others, and on thai ground to boast. 

This text is not applicable to your present case. You will 
not be unwise to compare yourself with all the sick and afflict- 
ed that you have seen, or have any knowledge of. Accordingly, 
you do so. You think of all the calamities and complaints, 
that, during your whole life, you have beheld preying upon your 
unhappy and disconsolate fellov/ creatures, All kinds of burn- 
ing fevers — rheumatic pains — pleurisies — cholic — dysentery — 
white-swellings — broken bones - convulsive fits^ — dropsies- -li- 
ver complaints — consumptions — palsies — the smallpox, and 
every disease which takes life. 

Especially, you think, of all those who have had the same 
disease which you now have, and got over it, and become well 
and hearty. You are able to recollect a great many that you 
have looked upon with your own eyes, on the bed of languish- 
ment and affliction — groaning under the same disease which 
distresses you. You compare yourself with them, and remem- 
ber that many of them, a great many, were worse, much worse, 
than you are, and yet got well. Your kind nurse is able to assist 
you in these thoughts, and tells you of a large number whom 
she has seen that were as bad in the same disease, and a great 
deal worse, and for a much longer time, yet got well. She 
smiles, and speaks with a tone of firmness and encouragement, 
and assures you that there is much ground to hope. She says 
to you, "do not despond — bear up — bear up — hope for the best — 
we are doing all we can, and shall not desert you a moment." 

You think of the sick persons she mentions, and let your 
tlioughts run on at length in comparing yourself among them. 
You look around upon them and see them now m good health, 
going about, and industriously, and cheerfully attending to their 
business, though they had lain many weeks longer than you 
have upon the bed of affliction, with the very same disease, 
and were much weaker. You fancy that you may do so too, 
some weeks hence. On this subject, your physician speaks to 



HIE AFFLICTED. 15 

you. He is candid. He says — "well, my palieni, we are sorry 
to see you so bad — your disease is truly quite severe, but I have 
seen hundreds worse with the same disorder, all of whom reco- 
vered. You must keep good courage. — This disease is your 
enemy. One of the most powerful things which you have to 
oppose it, is a bold spirit. Brace up, determine to conquer, and 
we think you will do it — at least you will stand as good a chance 
as others have." He then retires. 

Take notice! 1 am speaking of the consolations which this 
world affords the afflicted and discorisolate. You are a christian ^ 
— you have long read, and studied the scriptures. Though 
they originated in the invisible world, yet they are the property 
of men. It has pleased God to make them a part of this world. 
He h'dd them written for two great purposes— to instruct and 
console men as long as they live upon the earth, and to open to 
their prospect a happy world to come. 

You have for a length of lime, looked to them for instruction 
and consolation; but now in this hour of trial, your attention is 
more specially directed to them. 

They contain many commandments, statutes and ordinances 
for instruction, and abound with examples of affliction and pro- 
Kfiises for consolation. You have been comparing yourself 
with all the afflicted, that have been within the range of your 
observation and knowledge In doing this, you have been very 
careful to think of all your fellow christians, whom you have 
seen in affliction. And you tried to remember, very particular- 
ly, how it went with them — how severel}^, and how long they 
were afflicted, and in what manner they seemed to bear it — how 
they seemed to feel and express themselves, and act. In this 
comparison, you recollected a large number of eminent chris- 
tians, in your day, who had been grievously afflicted. In- 
deed, you were able to remember, very few, if any, that had not. 
And thus you saw plainly verified, what the scriptures fully 
teach, that It is an established and invariable law of God, in 
executing the plan of salvation, that hi^ people, the redeemed, 
should be specially afflicted and tried — that, '-out of great tribu- 
lation'' they should enter heaven. When you consider your 
own character in comparison with all other men and christians, 
you can see no good reason why you should be exempt from 
alliiction,any more than those around you. Especially, when 
you feel yourself altogether inferior to them. But as a christian, 
you compare yourself not only with modern christians, but 
with all you have read or heard of from the days of ( hrist down 
to your own day. Your mind dwells tor a length of time, in 
thinking of all the faithful and true martyrs who have in differ- 



J 6 CONSOLATIONS O* 

fint ages l)€en hunted and persecuted during their lives, and 
closed theni by being beheaded, or torn in pieces by wild beasts-, 
or burnt to death ''for the witness of Jesus and for the word of 
God." This comparison is truly consoling to you. If their 
severe and uncommon sufferings and trials, and violent death, 
was no evidence that they were not the children of God, but on 
the contrary, was good evidence that they really were, you are 
comforted with the thought ilviit you too, may be. 

In thi<*, you are supported and confirmed, by remembering the 
invariable law — that, "whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth^ 
and scourgerh every son whom he receiveth " 

You are far from stopping here, however; you turn your 
thoughts to another, and higher class of men, who in their day, 
gr;miied under affliction You think of all the afflicted servants 
of God, mentioned in the Bible, from righteous Abel, who died 
a sudden and violent death by the hands of a brother, down to 
the beloved Ji>hn, who was banished to the isle of Patmos, '^fbr 
the word of G:>d, and for the testimony of Jesus Christ." — 
Weil, you remember the history whuh you have so often read 
of all the faithful patriarchs, prophets, ap sties and saints, who 
were severely afflicted and tried — who were eminent in degree, 
according to the degree of their affliction. 

^"The time of affliciion is usually God's gracious trying sea- 
son with his people, in the time of their rarest comforts and 
sweetest toretastes of heayen, according to 2 Cor. 1 . 5. Paul 
and Siiasdid never sing more joyfully than when they were laid 
in the inner prison, with iheir backs torn wiih scourges, and 
their teet fast in the stocks, Acts, 16, 24. And when was it that 
Jacob saw the angels of God ascending and descending upoa 
the ladder that reached betwixt heaven and earth, but at the time 
when he was in a destitute case, forced to lie in the open field, 
having no canopy but the heavens, and no piilow but a stone? — 
When was it that the three children saw Christ in the likeness 
of tfie Son of Man, walking with them, but when thev were in 
the furnace, and when it was hotter than ordinary ? When was 
it ih it Ezekiel had a vision of God, but wheii sitting solitary by 
the river Chebar in the land of his captivity? When was it that 
J^ohn got a glorious vision of Christ, but \\ hen he was an exile 
in the isle of Patmos? And, when Wc>s it that Stephen saw the 
heavens opened, and Christ standing at the right hand of Gud 
pleadiugfjr him, but vvheu thev weie stoning and bruisiii^*: him 
to death? So that the most remarkable experiences of G'd''s 
kindness, that believers get in this world, have been traced to the 
time ^>f afflictior;- the coiisideration wht^e *f should move every 
(xhnstian to wait on the Lord, and bear hi^ cross with patience.'' 



THE AFFLICTED. 17 

^' I observe that plants and herbs are sometimes killed by 
frosts, and yet without frosts they would neither !ive nor thrive: 
they are sometimes drowned with water, and \et without water 
they cannot subsist: they are refreshed and cheered by the heat 
of the sun, and yet that sun sometimes kil^s and scorches them 
up. Thus lives my soul: troubles and afflictions seem to kill 
all its comforts.; and yet without these, its comforts could not 
live. The sun-blasts of prosperity sometimes refresh me, and 
yet those sun-blasts are the likeliest way to wither me: By 
what seeming contradictions is the life of my spirit preserved? 
what a mystery, what a paradox is the life of a Christian ?^' 

Of the whole list of the above mentioned persons, your 
thoughts hastily settle upon Job. You look at Job and consi- 
der his case fully. You see that he was a great example of 
affliction. That he was, perhaps, the most fit character that 
God could select to afflict, and make an example for his church 
in all succeeding ages. The candle of God had long shined up- 
on him, and he was prospered to the highest extent. You look 
at him surrounded by his thousands of oxen, and asses, and 
sheep, and camels, and servants, and a large family of childreng 
being honoured by all the people of the country, low ana high^ 
so that he was the greatest of ail the men of the east ; but above 
all , having the testimony of God himself, that there was none 
like him in all the earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that 
feared God and eschewed evil. Upon him, who was so upright 
and perfect, that there was none like him upon the earth, you see 
God sending calamity after calamity— the Sabeans falling upon 
the oxen and asses, and taking them away, and slaying the ser*^ 
vants with the edge of the sword — the fire of God falling from 
heaven, and burning up the sheep and the servants that kept 
them — the Chaldeans making out two bands, falling upon the 
camels, taking them away and slaying the servants that were 
with them, with the edge of the sword. And a great wind from 
the wilderness smiting the corners of the house, in which his 
children were assembled, causing it to fall, and cru^h them all to 
death. Ail these heavy blows were reported to him, oiie after 
another, as fast as he could hear. You see him thus stripped 
naked of all his possessions, and comforts, and honors, and in 
stead thereof, clothed with sore biles, from the sole of his foot 
unto his crown, and they inflicted by the hand oi' Satan, himself 

Perhaps you check your thoughts for a moment, and ask 
yourself— why all this, on so good a man? An answer readily 
rises to your mind. You not only remember, that all have sin- 
ned, and there is none so perfect and upright in the sight of God 
as not to need chastisement and correction, but you remember 

2 



IS CONSOLATtO>'S OF 

all Job's acknowledments. **He fell down upon the ground 
and worshipped, and said — Naked came I out of m)' mother's 
womb, and naked shall I return thither; the Lord gave, and the 
Ix)rd hath taken away ; blessed be the name of the Lord," He said 
k) his wife — ''What? shall we receive good at the hand of God, 
and shall we not receive evil?" ''If I justify myself, mine own 
mouth shall condemr^ me, if I say, 1 am perfect, it shall also 
prove me perverse." You recollect, however, that he spoke 
much of his uprightness and righteousness. You think he 
meant in the sight of men; and further, that he had not been 
guilty of great and erring sins in the sight of God or man. — 
That he had not sinned, and continued to sin, and delighted in 
sin, like an openly wicked man. 

But he is grievously afflicted, and you proceed to compare 
yourself with him. You look at him, deprived of his substancCj 
not having his servants and children to nurse him, and very ear- 
ly in the scene, (strange to tell 1) his very wife becommg impa- 
tient and advising him to die. You fancy that your own eyes 
behold him covered in every part, all over, with sore, and fever- 
ish and painful biles, not able to gain any rest by changing his 
position or turning himself in hi- bed. When he lies down, 
he says — "when shall I arise, and the night be gone? I am 
full of tossings to and fro, unto the dawning of the day." 

Tossings! tossings! when every gentle move causes hundreds 
of aching, piercing darts of pain, to shoot to the heart from eve* 
ry direction. He exclaims — "Oh that my grief were thorough- 
ly weighed, and my calamity laid in the balances together! — 
For now it would be heavier than the sand of the sea. My 
bones are pierced in me in the night season. My bowels boiled, 
and rested not. My face is foul with weeping, and on my eye- 
lids is th'3 shadow of death! The da^s of affliction have taken 
hold upon me. I am made to possess months of vanity, and 
wearisome nights are appointed to me !" Not merely days, nor 
weeks, but months of vanity, with all their wearisome nights, 
you see were appointed to him, m this indescribably wretched 
condition. 

But though his "strength was not the etrergth of stones, nor 
his flesh of brass," he bears up, endures it all, recovers, and 
afterwards sees many good days upon the earth. 

By this comparison, you may be encouraged and consoled. — 
You may have hope, both as a sick person, and as a christian. — 
As a christian, perhaps you pause to reflect, on the impatient 
manner in which Job cursed his day, and longed to die. In 
your present condition, you can easily see what drove him to 
it> But was it right? You decidedly say — it was not. His 



THfi a'fflicted; 16 

patience should have extended so much farther as to have re- 
strained him from such desperate feelings and expressions.—^ 
Great as his patience was, this it did not do. 

In the extremit)' of his anguish, and the bitterness of hie 
soul, being left to the suggestions of his own corrupt heart, 
and in the hands of Satan, he most violently cursed the day of 
his birth — wished he had never been born, and vehemently, and 
fretfully exclaimed — ''Oh th<it 1 might have my request; and 
that God would grant me the thing that I long for ! Even that 
it would please God to destroy me ; that he would let loose his 
hand, and cut me ofF!'^ How absurd for a rational and immortal 
being, and a converted soul too, to wish that he had never had 
existence! And how sinful for him, even in Job's extreme 
case, to dictate to the all-wise God, and by praying for death, 
8ay that God could bless him more in that way than any other, 
and by it most advance the divine glory! God knew best how 
to do these for him, and with him, and he did it by preservin g 
his life a hundred and forty years, and making him doubly pros- 
perous. In his calmer moments, howevervj '4ie abhorred himself 
for this, and repented in dust and ashes, acknowledging he 
had uttered that he understood not; things too wonderful for 
him, which he knew not. Upon the whole, he held fast his 
integrity. He firmly said — "Till I die, I will not remove mine 
integrity from me. My righteousness, I hold fast, and will not 
let it go. Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him. For I 
know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the 
latter day upon the earth : 

And though after my skin, worms destroy this body, yet in 
my flesh shall I see God. 

All the days of my appointed time, will I wait, till my 
change come." 

Moses, the meekest man of whom we read, when grievously 
oppressed, prayed '*that God would kill him.'' Elijah ^'request- 
ed for himself that he might die." '^Jeremiah passionately 
cursed his day." And Jonah said — "O Lord, take, I beseech 
thee, my life from me; for it is better for me to die than to live." 
You think God permitted these eminently pious and faithful men 
when severely afflicted, and tried, thus to fail and sin, for two 
great purposes, that themselves and all others, who put their 
confidence in God for life and salvation, might know and feel 
their own weakness, and that we all when in affliction, might 
endeavour to shun their example, and if we should feel ourselves 
tempted to exhibit the same sinful impatience, or should unhap- 
pily be so far left to ourselves ; as actually to fail and madly 
curse our day, or impatiently wish to die, M^e may think of them 



20 CONSOLATIONS OF 

and not utterly despair of the grace and mercy of God. They 
afterwards repented. God forgave them, and while on earth 
they looked back with abhorrence upon their want of resigna- 
tion^ to the sovereign will of God. How may we suppose they 
now look upon it, from heaven? N:^ doubt with unspeakably 
greater abhorrence. Under our afflictions then, let us ever 
pray most fervently, that God may be pleased to uphold us, and 
enable us to shun the bad example of these good men , and in th^ 
sharpest conflicts, so resign us to his wdll, that we may say 
with one of them — ^'Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him '^ 
After you have compared your afHictions with the trials of 
Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, and Joseph, and the whole 
list of those mentioned by the apostle, in the eleventh to 
the Hebrews, '^sonie of whom had trial of cruel mockings, 
and scourgings yea, moreover, of bonds and imprisonment — 
were stoned, were sawn asunder, were tempted, Nvere slain wdth 
the sword — wandered about in sheep skins and goat skins; being 
destitude, afflicted, tormented;" — after you have proceeded 
still further, and compared yourself with all the tried and afflict- 
ed saints, martyrs and apostles, mentioned in the new Testa- 
ment, you will then compare yourself with Christ himself. 

Here your mouth is shut, and every murmur hushed. He 
was emphatically called by the prophet--'* a man of sorrows 
and acquainted wiih grief; we did esteem him stricken, smitten 
of God and afflicted."" And why afflicted? not for himself, not 
for his own sm . He needed no chastisement for correction — he 
was not guilty. 

'*The chastisement of our peace, was upon him." His un- 
exampled sufferings and afflictions, were voluntary — he did not 
need them— he chose them. He was willing to groan, and 
sweat, and bleed, and die, the just for the unjust. You think 
of him. and look at him under his great — his infinite afflictions! 
You see the sons of wickedness and violence, persecuting him 
from time to time, and him escaping for his life. iNot like you, 
he not only felt what was upon him, but foresaw all that was to 
come. Il is some consolation to you, that the future is conceal- 
ed from your view. You do not foresee all that you are to suf- 
fer; nor even know that you are to suffer any thing more worth 
speaking of. Not so with him. The immense weight of his 
afflictions was to come upon him at a certain hour, and he knew 
his hour. He said, long before it came, "mine hour is not yet 
eome." The greater part of his sufferings, previous to his 
hour consisted in his frightful, and soul distressing foreboding 
of the hour itself. Thus they were all made to tend to, and 
centre in, that awful hour. The scene of them wa,s not extend- 



XliB AFFLICTED. 2\ 

t;d nor coi^npiicated, but brought down to a single point. Keep- 
ing this in view then, you direct your eyes to him as he ap- 
proaches nearer and nearer, to this hour. You see he possesses 
all the sinless feelings and exquisite sensibilities of human 
nature. As he draws nigher and nigher, his foreboding be- 
comes more and more dreadful and distressing^ till you behold 
him on the mount of Olives, prostrate upon the ground, crush- 
ed by the anticipation of what was before him to the very earth, 
being sore amazed and sorrowful, and very heavy, so that his 
grief and his very blood burst out, and he exclaims, ''My soul 
is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death!" So terrified, that his 
human nature shrinks back at the sight of his hour, now at 
hand, and he cannot forbear praying repeatedly to his heavenly 
Father, that if it were possible the hour, and the bitter, bitter 
cup of affliction, which he was then to drink, might pass from 
him; but ever concluding with perfect patience and resignationj 
not my will, but thine, be done. 

Here you learn patience and resignation, more than from all 
others, beside. Your thoughts follow him on to the awful hour 
of crucifixion ; which was his hour to suffer, and the hour of the 
sons of mischief, and the power of darkness to inflict, yea of 
God himself to inflict. What then must be the affliction, when 
powers of earth and hell, yea, and of heaven itself, unite in 
afflicting! You gaze at the scene — your thoughts cannot ex- 
tend to its extent — -your conception fails — you are lost, — you see 
that the affliction is infinite — altogether peculiar^ unknown and 
inconceivable! In comparison to it, your own, however severe, 
seems to you to dwindle down to nothing, and almost disappear. 

As you are viewing this scene, a thought occurs to your mind 
which is unspeakably consoling. It is, that Christ endured all 
this, that you and others might not have to groan under it eter- 
nally. You feel yourself a sinner, and that you deserved to 
endure the punishment of sin, what he endured, which was 
infinitely more than you could have suffered out to eternity. 

Almost infinite consolation therefore, comes into your heart 
from the thought that you are delivered from this. His afflic- 
tions were penil, the punishment of sin. Yours are on account 
of sin, but only corrective, for chastisement. Nevertheless, 
yours belong to the plan of salvation, and are necessary *'t3 fill 
np, (in a certain inferior sense,) that which is behmd of the 
afflictions of Christ." 

From all these considerations, you are reconciled to bear 
thorn, and you endeavour, with all your might, to check and 
suppress every qualm of impatience, every rising murmur and 
complaint. 

2* 



22 C02fSOLATIONS OP 

These are some of the sources of consolation which thfe 
world affords you, in your disconsolate condition. These are 
some of the things and heings in this world, and surrounding 
jou, to which your mind will first, and most naturally, look for 
consolation. As I proceed, I shall mention one or two more. 

March 17th, 1828. 



Another day or two have now elapsed, and in spite of all the 
efforts of nature and of art, and the kind and incessant help- 
of your faithful nurse and physician , and friends, you are 
much worse. 

Your disease rages more and more, and now begins seriously 
to threaten to prevail, and oveicome you. Your strength is 
prostrated. You are no longer able to stand on your fe«t, and 
can scarcely raise yourself in your bed. You are emaciated. — 
Your countenance is pale. You have a bad taste in your mouth. 
Your breath is offensive, and an offensive morbid smell rises 
from your whole body^ You are, indeed, a loathsome object to 
yourself, and those around you. As you lie upon the bed, 
your hands are that part of you, which you most readily see; 
and by lookmg at them you discover to what degree, you are 
reduced. You have just got through a severe night, and it is 
morning. The light returns, and fills your room, but brings 
little or no refreshment, or animation to you. Though "the 
light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold 
the sun," yet but little sweetness or pleasantness is now wafted 
upon "the wings of the morning^' to your dark and gloomy 
br« St. 

You turn your eyes to the window as on yesterday, but see 
nothing new, no variety, the same objects present themselves, 
and you have long since become tired of looking at them. Yon 
east your eyes ro nd your room, and see the table covered with 
phials and bottles for your medicme, and plates and bowls, and 
cups, for your diet, and gruels, and drinks. It appears to you, 
what it really is, a sickperson^s room, the prison of the afflicted 
and forlorn. It presents both the smell of the apothecary's 
shop, and the bed of sickness. Af>er breakfast you hear, per- 
haps, in an adjoining room, the other men?bors of the family 
speakmg about thfir business, and of going this way and that, 
to attend to it. You hear them start out, and/ whether it is so 
•r not, they seem to ^ou to be regardless of your thoughts and 
feelings. They are now out of hearing, and the house is left 
silent. You cannot follow them, nor even rise up. You are 



THE AFFLICTEBc 23 

left to yourself—"to solitude- -to sorrow leftP' Your thoughts 
recoil upon you with great and almost overwhelming force. — - 
Many times through your life you have visited such rooms, and 
seen the sick and thought their case truly bad, but never before 
had you the sick person's thoughts and feelings. In their case 
you saw, but now you feeL And such a flood of feeling swells 
in your breast, that you can no longer restrain, it bursts out and 
— 'Hike a crane or a swallow, so do you chatter: you do mourn 
as a dove." You cannot bear up— you cannot resist the tide of 
feeling. You cry out in the bitterness of your soul — -'I shall 
go to the gates of the grave. I shall behold man no more, with 
the inhabitants of the world." You weep — "you water your 
couch with your tears." 

In the midst of these dolefil chatterings and mournings there 
is a gentle rap at your door. Your nurse steps and opens it, and 
bids your minister walk in. He has reaeived your call, and is 
come to see you. He is an aged, gray-headed man. of tried,, 
and established, and unblemished character; against whom no 
charge can be brought, except by the tongue of slander, and 
whom you have long reverenced and loved, and with great de- 
light and profit, heard preaching and proclaiming the gospel — 
^Hhegood tidings of great jo> — glory to God in the highest, and 
on earth peace, good will toward men " He is a man of exten- 
sive education. Particularly, he has long studied and meditat- 
ed upon, the stupendous and glorious plan of salvation, which 
causes so much wonder in the universe. His mind is truly cul- 
tivated and enlarged. 

"I would express him simple, grave, sincere ; 
In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain. 
And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste. 
And natural in gesture; much impressed 
Himself, as conscious of his awful charge ; 
And anxious mainly , that the flock he feeds 
May feel it too ; affectionate in look. 
And tender in address, as well becomes 
A messenger of grace, to guilty men." 

Perhaps like you, m days past, he. has been sick and "felt the 
same." He is intimately acquainted with human nature in all 
its propensities, and calamities, and hopes. With such a heart, 
all tenderness, affection, love and sympathy; and with a coun- 
tenance, calm and firm, as his who trusts in the living God, he 
gently approaches your bed side, and in a low tone of voice 
calls you by name, and asks you how you feel this morning? — 
He hears your reply, then deliberately seats himself in a chair 



iJi CONSOLATIONS OF 

at the head of your bed— tenderly takes you by the hand — lodfes 
you in the face, with a pleasant smile, and thus addresses you at 
length, allowing you, as he proceeds, sufficient intervals to rest, 
and take refreshment. 

My dear fellow mortal, and fellow christian, you are sick and 
feeble, "the days of affliction have taken hold upon yoti,'' and you 
are brought low. The dark nights of adversity hover over you, 
and you are sad and sorrowful. We all feel for you, most tenderly 
and affectionately. Your friends have been doing every thing 
in their power for your relief and restoration, and they will not 
only continue, but increase their exertions. They will inces- 
santly use, to tjie utmost of their skill, all the means within 
vheir leBjch to raise you up again to health and comfort, and ac- 
tive life. 

The power of medicine is great, it may yet work a very salu- 
tary and desirable change upon you. You are not yet so low 
as I have seen others, who lived long afterwards. Much de- 
pends, (as no doubt your physician has told you,) upon the state 
of your mind. 

No two things are more intimately connected, than your soul 
and body. 

The one suffers with the other. Your mind needs medicine, 
as well as your body. The only medicine which you can obtain 
for it, is pleasant thoughts. They will produce pleasant feel- 
ings — and pleasant feelings in the mind, will counteract un- 
pleasant feelings in the body. Therefore, by inviting and woo- 
ing such thoughts and indulging in them, you will make an at- 
tack upon your disease, though indirect, yet powerful. 

I have been told that you have endeavoured to obey the charge 
of your doctor, and have been gathering in all the consolotary 
thoughts you could from the things and beings of this world. 

In so domg, you have acted perfectly right You are still an 
inhabitant of this world, and it is not only your duty, but privi* 
lege, to continue to use it to the best advantage. You will do 
well, therefore, to contmue musing as much as you can, upon 
all the manifold works of God, which in wisdom he has made 
here below. The whole creation is before your view, in all its 
visible and sensible objects, whether animate or inanimate, ra- 
tional or irrational. You may view the men and things of this 
world, in every new light you can. All the parts of creation, 
from the prof )undest philosopher, down to the minutest particle 
of dust, brillicintly exhioit the divine wisdom When it is said , 
^*the whole earth is full of the glory of God," the saying ia true. 
Creation then, furnishes you a vast and boundless field in which 
you may let your thoughts roam at large, in order to amuse your 
mind and drown vour sorrows. 



THE AFFLICTED. 23 

In this, you only need one caution, and that is, to remember, 
^Hhat ihey thr.t use ihis world mast use it as not abusing it; for 
the fashion of this world, passeth away." 

But God is not only the God of creation, but of providence. 
He not only made the world, but governs it. His providence 
is over all things. Here is another field, equally extensive with 
creation, in which your thoughts may roam. This too, is a 
field which is far more congenial to your present condition and 
feelings, than creation. There are equal displiys of divine 
wisdom and power in it, and not only so, but a display of these 
and even of divine goodness, in your present bad and unhappy 
feelings, themselves. Of this you wdll be convinced, when you 
reflect — '' that atHiction cometh not forth of the dust, neither 
doth trouble sprmg out of the ground." **God is the judge; he 
putteth down one, and setteth up another." He it is, that says 
in the fulness of his own independence and sovereignty — ''I 
kill, and I make alive; I wound, and I heal." You will there- 
fore, naturally be much occupied in meditating upon the multi- 
form and various allotments, and appointments, of providence. 
You will most naturally meditate upon the endless vicissitudes 
and changes, through which men pass in this world of uncer- 
tainty, toil and strife. Of their prosperity and adversity — their 
success and disappointments — one^s being sick, and gettmg well 
— some lingering for a length of time in sickness — others dying 
suddenly — the great majority being cut off before they arrive 
at old age — and you v/ill think of the innumerable instances of 
the first being made last, and the last first, contrary to their own 
expectations, in almost every case. It is proper and desirable^ 
that you should indulge in all these, and such like thoughts, 
about this present visible world, (however bad your case may 
be,) for the purpose of preserving and prolonging your life. 

But there is another world, though invisible, yet real. This 
we know by faith, and it is an unspeakable consolation, decided- 
ly, to know it. To this, it is my special and sacred duty, as a 
minister of the gospel, to direct the attention of my fellow men, 
whether in health or sickness. 

About this invisible future world, you have read much in the 
revelation, which it has pleased God to give, concerning it. — 
This revelation is called the word of God, and is contained in 
the Bible. From the accounts there given, you have long di- 
rected your attention to the invisible world. From the stupen- 
dous and glorious exhibitions of nature, and the existence of 
intellect in man, and the plain and conclusive declarations of 
revelation, you believe, and are firmly persuaded in your mind^ 
and fully satisfied, that there is such a world. That there is a 



^6 CONSOLATIONS OF 

'God, who is a spirit, and that there are with him, angelic spirits 
without bodies. Tiiat the soul of man is a spirit, and immor- 
tal, — cannot die, nor perish, nor bedesrtroyed by any but God, 
and he has said he will never annihilate it. These thougkts, 
and this faith, are not new to you. In the days of your health 
and strength, they occupied your mind. Your mind was much 
given to them. And since your sickness, much more. As 
your health and strength decline, you think more and more 
about the invisible world, and perhaps have new and enlarged, 
and more realizing views of it. As you draw nearer to it, you 
see it plainer, and your hopes of happiness in it increase. * 

How are these things with you? Are they so? It may be 
you arc able to an^v/er him decidedly, that they are so. You 
say, though at times I have had some temptations to doubt, yet 
the evidences t>f my faith, have grown stronger and stronger, 
and my hopes of a happy immortality brighter and brighter ; 
and in a ten fold degree, since my sickness. I know now what 
is meant, when it is said — *'In their affliction, they will seek me 
early." I find affliction to be, like the law, a good school mas- 
ter to bring me to Christ and fill my mind with all holy graces 
and heavenly contemplations. It constrains me "to look not at 
the things v>^hich are seen, but at the things which are not seen."" 
It makes religion and heaven to appear r^aZ. Your minister is 
happy to hear you express yourself thus. Tells you that all 
this is just as it should be, and proceeds in speaking to you 'of 
the invisible world. He says, my dear fellow mortal, the things 
which are seen are temporal, of short duration; but the things 
Vrhich are not seen, are eternal, of endless duration. ITiis 
visible world, is to come to an end — the invisible world abi- 
deth ever. 

^'Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of 
things not seen." It is a great channel opened into the invisi- 
ble world, down through which consolations may flow into the 
hearts of the disconsolate. Far the larger part of those conso* 
iations which may come, will consist in hope. 

It is true, something of the spirit of heaven — some of the 
graces which adorn and beautify the inhabitants of the invisible 
world — some small part of their perfect happiness, may flow 
into your breast as an earnest that you will ultimately possess 
the whole, but so long as that world continues to be an invisible 
world, the main income which you will receive from it, will 
consist in hope. All that you will have to suffer, you will 
suffer in hope — hope not only of being delivered from all suffer- 
ing, but of being put in possession, at length, of the perfect and 
iminterrupted happiness of the invisible world. This happi- 



THE AFFLieXED. ^ 

liess is promised to all who believe there is such a world, and 
*^lay hold on the hope set before them." The promises of it, 
you have found in the Bible, in almost every part. They are 
very numerous, very plain, and full of consolation. They are 
variously expressed, and suited to men in every condition of life. 
The following arc a few of those, which are applicable to your 
present condition. ''Blessed are they that mourn: for they 
shall be comforted. Blessed are ye that weep now: for ye 
shall laugh. Ye shall be sorrowful; but your sorrow shall be 
turned unto joy. He that endureth unto the end. shall be sav- 
ed. To him that overcometh, will I give to eat of the tree of 
life, which is in the midst of the paradise of God." 

The pious and inspired David and Pau^, were men much 
afflicted, and they express themselves in the following consoling 
and enc€)uraging language. *' Weeping may continue for a night 
but joy Cometh in the morning. Remember the word upon 
which thou hast caused me te hope. This is my comfort in 
my affliction: for thy word hath quickened me For which 
cause we taint not; but though our outward man perish, yet the 
inward man is renewed day by day. For our light affliction, 
w hich is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding 
and eternal weight of glory." 

You observe three things conspired together, to aiford them 
comfort and consolation, under their uncommon afflictions. — 
That they were light, short, and to be succeeded by joy and a 
weight of glory. Light, in comparison to what they deserved, 
and in comparison to the joy, the fullness of joy, and the glory, 
the exceeding weight of glory, that were to follow. Short, in 
comparison to the afflictions of many others, and to eternal suf- 
ferings. All this may be summed up in their possessing and 
exercising hope, through faith. There is nothing which ena- 
bled them, and other good men, who have been grievously 
afflicted, or even Christ himself, under his sufierings, to consi- 
der their afflictions light, or even short, but the hope of their 
coming to an end, and being followed by joy and glory, ia the 
invisible world. 

''No affliction, no chastening for the present, seemeth to be 
joyous but grievous.*" Before Christ himself, a reward was 
held out. **He for the joy that was set before him, endured the 
cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of 
the throne of God." The joy set before him, was the salvatioa 
of his people — that he should see of the travail of his soul, and 
be satisfied. It was the joy of sitting down at the right hand of 
the throne of God — the fulness of joy and the exceeding weight 
of glory, which are peculiar to the God-head. Joy and glory 



28 CONSOLATIONS OF 

•f that kind are not held out to you. The same, however, that 
were set beibre David and Paul and all the faithful and pious, 
are set before you; and these possess a fulness and exceeding 
weight; all that you are capable of receiving and enjoying — 
Heaven then, witti ali its rich rewards — iis fulness of joy — its 
exceeding weight of glory — its perfect peace and boundless and 
eternal blessedness, is the o inject of your hope. No affliction 
there, no sickness, nor sorrow, nor pain, nor death. And O! 
the transporting thought! this perfect happiness will have no 
end J It will be eternal. My dear fellow mortal, your affliction 
here cannot be long ; you may weep for a night, but joy will 
come in the morning. Your outward man may perish, as you 
are already pale and emaciated, but your inward man will be 
renewed day by day. But think of time and eternity! — Your 
light affliction which is but for a momeui is working out f )r you 
a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory! Thiak of 
the airiictions of Christ, and of the damned — his infinite — their's 
eternal, and both grievous, weighty — an immense load. Your's 
is light. Certainly light, or it would long since have taken 
your life. You have not much strength in your body — it can- 
not bear much — Christ was supported purposely to suffer, and 
so are the damned. Not so with you. However heavy your 
affliction may feel, it is but light chastisement — and but fjr a 
moment. VVere it to continue the whole length of man's life, 
three score and ten years, in comparison with eternity, it would 
be but for a moment. And when this moment is over, what 
then? Your affliction during this moment is working Out for 
you a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory. These 
terms are acknowleded by all to be the most expressive that the 
apostle could use. When your moment of affliction shall be 
over, you are looking not only for glory, but a weight of glory, 
not only for a weight of glory, but an eternal weight of glory, 
and not only for an eternal weight of glory, but a far more ex- 
ceeding and eternal weight of glory. 

This IS what the invisible world presents to your view, 
through faith. This is what you hope for, and the hope is un- 
speakably consoling and supporting. ''It is an anchor to your 
soul, both sure and steadfast, entering into that within the veil." 
It binds you to heaven, and heaven to you, with a cable and 
anchor, sure and steadfast, which cannot be broken. It makes 
sure unto you, the indescribable glory, and perfect and eternal 
happiness of the invisible world. 

Christ purchased not only his people, but heaven for them; 
and he has gone to prepare mansions to receive them, when 
they leave this world. He dwelt in the invisible world of old, 



I 



THE AFFLICTE». 5S» 

"^•from everlasting;^' but ia the fulness of time he came dowa 
from heaven, was made flash, and dwelt among us, that he might 
speak uiito men '* face to face, as a 'man speaketh unto hia 
friend" D u-ing^ the davs of his flesh, he was specially the 
visible great Comforter of .he afflicted, and disconsolate. '"He 
comf rted them that, mourned.'*' To them his langage was — '*B© 
of good comfort — pea^^e be unto you,*" so long as he remained 
am >ng them, S) ^hat ^* their consolation abounded through 
Christ." And when hi^ was about to go away—*' He said unto 
them, Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, be- 
lieve also in me. And I will pray the Father, and he shall 
give you another Comfortcjr, that he may abide with you for 
ever. I will not leave you comfortless; but the Comforter, 
which is the H.)l3^ Ghost, whom the Father will send in my 
name. He shall teach you all things, and bring all things to 
your remembrance/ whatsoever I have said unto you."" 

There is, therefore, my dear alfiicted friend^ one and a great 
one, whose very business is to comfort the comf)rtless; whose 
very name is, The (^)mforter, and who is to abide ever with 
the comfortless. His consolations vou may now look for and 
expect. He is of the invisil>le world and himself invisible. — 
You will neither see nor hear him, nor feel him with your 
hands, but you may feel him in your heart — your discon- 
solate heart. He will comfort and console you, by infusing 
into your mind the best of thoughts and feelings; holy and 
happy thoughts and feelings. In days past he has convin- 
ced you that you are a sinner, and you are deeply humbled. 
He will now come pointing you to the plan of salvation — 
yea, bringing salvation into your heart. He will greatly aid 
you — teaching you all things, making the plan of salvation 
to appear plain, so far as necessary, to your view; so that you 
will see clearly how God can be just, and yet justify the un- 
godly — how even yourself can be justified and saved. He J^' 
will bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever Christ ?' 
has s lid or done to save poor sinners. He is the au*thor of 
your faith and hv>pe — he implanted those graces in your 
breast; and when you tee] confirmed in faiths and your breast 

1 glows. with a full assurance of hope, you may consider these 
flowing into your disconsolate heart from the great invisible 

! I Comforter. 

An enemy will always take advantage In making his attacks, 

l!Your enemies, with Satan at their head, will take advantage of 
your afflicted and weak state. They may perhaps make a vio- 
lent onset upon you. and exerl the utmost of their skill and pow*^r 
to stagger your faith and put out your hope. They may even 

3 



30 CONSOLATIONS OF 

tempt you to believe that there is no invisible world— *no God, 
no Saviour, no invisible Comforter, no angels, and no immortali- 
ty for man. When your mind strongly repels such thoughts and 
temptations, -believing them to come from the devil, and you are 
enabled resolutely to say ^'get behind me Satan ;" when you look 
upon him and his legions as vanquished enemies and yourself 
no longer their prisoner — when you triumph over them, and 
look with contempt upon the allurements of this vain and fleet- 
ing world — when you feel rooted, and grounded, and built up 
and established in the faith of an invisible and eternal world — 
when your breast swells with a living holy hope of a glorious and 
happy immortality — all this you ma}^ reasonably consider the 
kind and efficient work of the great invisible Comforter within, 
you. This is the greatest and fullest consolation which you can 
receive from any source whatever while you remain beneath the 
sun. It consoles you, not only for time, but in view of eternity. 
Time is short, eternity is long. The full and firm persuasion 
that you will be happy through eternity, is consolation indeed. 
it will support and strengthen you under the afflictions, and 
trials, and troubles, and disappointments of this j^hort and mis- 
erable life. You know that "man that is born of a woman, is of 
few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, 
and is cut down : he fleeth also as a shadow and continueth not." 
"Verily every man at his best state, is altogether vanity." It 
is emphatically declared that "all is vanity" here below. — 
You find it to be so. You found it to be so in your best state, 
when you were in health. You look upon this world, however 
excellent it rpay appear, as groaning under the curse of its Ma- 
ker. You say with Job, " I would not live always. '' Such is 
the view which you have of this world, when your heart is full 
of the consolations of the great Comforter. And your view of the 
eternal world is most animating and consoling. When the great 
Comforter comforts you, you receive "strong consolation, yea, 
everlasting consolation and good hope through grace ;" so that 
you are enabled to say with an apostle, "you are filled with 
comfort, you are exceeding joyful in all your tribulation." — 
Truly this is consolation which so much consoles you and 
sooths your pains as to enable you to be exceeding joyful in 
all your tribulation. Such are the consolations of the great 
Comforter; and although he is not only the great but the great- 
ost of all invisible comforters, yet there are others. There are 
angels, inferior created spirits, whise very name means mes- 
sengers, and who are "all ministering spirits, (and in times of 
need,) sent forth by the God of all comfort to minister for them 
who shall be heirs of solvation." They ministered to our^ft- 



THE AFFLICTED. 31 

,thers. When Abraham was tried to a degree beyond what is 
common to men, "an angel of the Lord called unto him ^' and 
sp )ke words of consolation. When Jacob was in deep distress 
the ^'angels of God met him.''' An angel fed and refreshed Elijah 
when violently persecuted by his enemies far into the lonely, dis- 
mal wilderness. Those kind invisible spirits delivered Daniel, 
and many others, in the hour of sharpest trials. It is said of 
Christ '*he was there in the wilderness forty days, tempted of Sa- 
tan, aad was with the wild beasts ; and the angels ministered unto 
him " And when he sweat, as it were, great drops of blood, 
falling down to the ground, there appeared an angel unto him 
from heaven strengthening him. An angel delivered the apos- 
tle Paul from prison. Oae of these kind messengers visited 
and consoled the disconsolate and forlorn Peter, when loaded 
wi?h irons, in a gloomy prison, caused his chains to fall from 
his hands, bid him gird himself, bind on his sandals and follow 
him out of the cheerless, dismal cell. ''The beggar died, and 
was carried by angels into Abraham's bosom" Thus you see, 
^'theagels of the L )rd encamp round about them that fear him, 
and deliver them." There will be no impropriety in your fan- 
cying them to be round about yoii at this time of need. 

Console yourself, then, by supposing a band of these celes* 
rial invisible comtorters to be emcamped round you, not only as 
a guard of warriors to keep off your enemies, but to minister 
consolation and strength to your feeble body and mind. Think 
of them, always awake, active, mighty and unwearied in repel- 
ling your invisible enemies, and administering consolation to 
your drooping .spirits. These are faithful messengers and min- 
isters of the great invisi!>le King. They will never leave the 
post which he assigns them without his special order. The}' 
delight to help the needy. So long as your days of trial last, 
you may thiak of them hovering over your pillow, feeling for 
you in all your pains and sorrows, and incessautly ministering to 
your necessities At the hour of death, the beggar was carried 
by them to Abraham^s bosom; and it wotild not be presumption 
in you when you die, to expect to be carried by the same faith- 
ful attendants into the invisibls world, which will then be visible 
to you. All clouds and mists will then fly from before your eyes, 
and you will see with open face the friendly comforters, before 
unseen, who conveyed you there. Th whole invisible world 
will then be opened to your vif»w in all its unknown glories and 
blessedness. You will see all the angels, and all the ransomed 
from among men. It is said '^ ihe puro in heart shall see God." 
None but the p'lre in heart are admitted there. If you gain ad- 
mission, you will see God, 



32 OdKTSOLATIOKS ©P 

Thus when you endeavour to console yourself by i3elieving 
the angf*ls to be around you, your thoughts are carried away to 
that happy home, to which, as a christian, your are travelling. 

As a christian minister, I must not fail to remind you that 
there is another order of invisiiJe beings from uh( m you may 
reasonably expect much consolation, perhaps mere, than from 
the angels themselves*. These beings are too little thought of 
by mankind in general, and especially by the afflicted and dis- 
consolato. *" I mean the souls of departed saints. In this I do 
not design to trouble you with empty conjectures. The scrip- 
tures not only teach that the sou's of departed saints are alive 
and active, but that they too are sent to succor the tempted and 
disconsolate. C'hrist tells the unbelievino Sadducees, that God 
is the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of 
Jacob. God is not the God of the dead, but of the living. — 
Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, then, are alive, and capable of 
being sent forth by him who is the God of the living, to accom- 
plish any of his grand designs. They, like Christ, were bone of 
oar bone, and flesh of our flesh. Their spirits were truly sister 
spirits to ours. They had all our feelings and sympathies.— - 
They are acquainted with this world . In their day, they en- 
countered Its trials, difiicultie» and woes. Deeply they can feel 
for us, and anxious they must be to come forth and console us 
when we are afflicted, and low, and disconsolate. ''Moses and 
Eiias. appeared unto Christ in the days of his humi iation and 
sufferings, and talked with him concerning the awful death 
which he was about to die, affording him all that consolation 
and strength, which, as creatures, they were capable of doing. 
One of the old prophets appeared to the apostle John, and con- 
versed with him familiarly and tenderly, saying unto him, '' I 
am thy fellow servant, and of thy brethren the prophets, and of 
them which keep the sayings of this book." 

The days of miracles are past, and we are not to expect the 
spirits of our departed felbw men to appear in a visible manner 
in order to comfort us, but you may console yourself by fancy- 
ing them, in this time of need, either in company with other an- 
gels or alone, to be hovering ovor } our bed and ministering unto 
you. The deep solicitude, the anxious concern of Ai raham^ 
the father of the. faithful, while in this world, for the welfare of 
his fellow men, you well remember. All his spiritual children, 
all true believers that have died and passed into the invisible 
world, had the same solicitude and concern for the peace, and 
comfort and happiness of their poor wretched fellow suflerers. 
No soul has ever desired to be saved and obtain salvation that 
did not strongly desire that others might be delivered from mis- 



TUB AFFLTCTEfi. 



33 



4ry and also obtain salvation. And can you think for a mo- 
ment, that that desire has forsaken their breasts, now they are 
eternally safe in the invisible world? Rather conclude that 
since they have tasted of the fullness of joy that is in the pre- 
sence of God, and felt the pleasures that are at his right hand, 
their desires for the deliverance and salvation of those who are 
still in the flesh, are increased beyond measure. You may think 
of them, therefore, standing with reverence before the throne of 
God, desiring and even impatiently waiting to be sent down to 
assist and console the afflicted and fodorn. O, yes ! so certain 
is it that he gratifies them and sends them on such messages of 
love and pity, that you may freely indulge the thought of there 
being an invisible band of your fellow men who were once bone 
your boae and flesh of your flesh, and felt the same that you now 
feel, even in this time of sore trial, surrounding and upholding 
your drooping head, and ministering unto you consolation and 
strength. Abraham himself may even now be here assisting you, 
or some one or more of the faithful patriarchs, prophets, or apos- 
tles. Yea, even the spirits of some of your own departed pious 
relations or friends, may be round you rejoicing to encourage 
and console you in the most tender and and affectionate manner^ 

Thus far of the invi&ible world and all the bemgs of it, from 
whom you may expect consolation. 

In what I have further to say , I would advise you to make 
all the use you can of those christian psalm^ and hymns with 
which you have been best acquainted; many of which, no doub^^ 
you have treasured in your memory. 

There are psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, peculiar to 
almost every denomination of christians. These express, ac- 
cording to the Bible, almost all the views, and feelings, and 
hopes of the christian, in whatever condition, this side of the 
grave. They are in your own mother tongue, in plain, simple, 
familiar language, and at the same time in the glowing, ele- 
vated, animating, and some of them, enrapturing style of mod- 
ern poetry. They are peculiarly adapted to express the feel- 
ings of the human heart. So much so, that all who love th^ 
sentiments which they convey, delight to use them. Even the 
most learned men, when upon sick beds or death beds, have 
used them to express their views and feelings, their faith, re- 
pentance, love and hope. They have often found single ver- 
ses, taken from different hymns, to answer this purpose in a most 
admirable manner. You may do the same, and if you cannot 
recollect enough, some friend may read them for you; especial- 
ly such as are suited to your afflicted slate. They may alsp 
read for you passages in any good book with which vou mav 

3^ 



34 CONSOLATIONS OF 

be pleased, or which may be recommended to you by those whc 
know what a good book is. 

But above all, I must recommend it to you to call to your 
mind all those passages of scripture which are familiar to you, 
and which have heretofore supported your faith, enkindled your 
love, and brightened your hope. As in the former case, you may 
have some friend to read for you any chapter or verse that you 
may choose. You can thus meditate at large upon the scrip- 
tures, and hear them read as much as your strength will bear. 

Besides these exercises, there is another intimately connect- 
ed with them, in which you have been accustomed to engage j 
I mean prayer. O, what amazing love, and mercy, and con- 
descension is it in G:>d, not only to lend a listenii-g ear to the 
cries of poor miserable mortals, but to answer their prayers. 
It is truly amazing condescension in the great Creator, .who is 
the head over ail and the upholder of the universe, not only to 
permit, but direct and encourage you and every one, at all 
times, but especially in times of need, to **come boldly unto his 
throne of grace to obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time 
of need, and to speak free'ly unto his Majesty, asking him for 
help and deliverance." Ot all the exercises in which mortals 
can, under any circumstances engage, this is the most devo- 
tional and happy. In it man seems to approach nearest to his 
God; so near as even to speak with him, and to lay hold upon 
his strength and receive of his fulness. The mind is enlarged, 
elevated even to hv^aven, and filled with holy and happy emo- 
tions. It has indeed, ''communion with God, and with his son 
Jesus Christ ;'' and from this communion receives a large income 
of peace, and joy and strength. O! hen, in tins time uf great 
weakness, lift up your soul to God in devout and^earnest praver, 
for consolation — for deliverance and strength. And if you do 
it with believing and operative faith, you will feel comforted 
and consoled in the very exercise. 

While thus lifting up your hands towards heaven, and with 
your voice humbly addressing heaven's King, you wili have a 
foretaste of heaven's felicity. *' Your conversalion will be in 
heaven," and at least fjr a short time, you will forget the dis- 
ease and pains under which your body labors. Therefore, I 
would seriously adWse you, as (/ten as your strength will per- 
mit, to po\ir out your soul to God in humble fervent prayer. — 
Beg of him to restore you to health, if consistent with his will, 
and to grant you all you need to muke you useful and happy 
while you live; and perfectly and eternally happy in the invis- 
ible world I: is my duty to be faihful and h >nest uiih y< u, 
CandoA and hoaosiy compel me to iei yv^u know that your symp- 



THE AFFLICTED. 35 

toms are alarming. It is true, my dear friend, that you are dan- 
gerously ill. YoiiY physician toid me that he would not be sur- 
prised if you shv^uld die m a few da^s. At this you «hould not 
be frightened. > So sooa as you became conscious of existence in 
this world, S3 soon as you were able to think and know that 
you were alive, you were told that you had to die. You have 
seen others die around you from time to time, and you know as 
certainly that you must die, some time, as you know that you are 
alive. Why then be frightened at the thought of death? You 
did not create or make yourself; you have not preserved your 
life, neither can you shun d^^aih. All you can do is to use the 
means which your physician and friends think best, and resign 
^ourself into the hands of God. He may bless the means in 
such a way that you may recover, or he may permit the dis- 
ease to rage to such a degree as to take you off. At this criti- 
cal time, you should take the most enlarged and extensive view 
©f yourself as connected with the universe. In doing this, you 
will look back to the day of your birth, to the time when you 
received existence and became an inhabitant of this world — - 
\ ou will retlect that the world had stood long before you came; 
that it had once done without you. From this you may con- 
elude that it can do without you again. It has always been 
able to spare those on whom death has seized, however useful 
they may have been, or whatever their connections in life. So- 
ciety has at all times been able, with greater or le^s inconven- 
ience and difficulty, to do without any of its members; even the 
greatest men, whose inventions and labours and productions, 
have been most useful to the world, and who were bound to it . 
by all the tenderest ties of love and affection; who were main 
pillars in the community; on whose shoulders the great con- 
cerns and interests of society rested. Providence has eifher 
raised up others to fill their places, or taught <urvivors how to 
manage without ihem. If so with respect to the greatest menj 
how much more easily can \ou be spared? Whatever be ) our 
eoniiections with men — h'»w ever dependant upon you otheis li.ay 
be — even if you are a father or mother, with a numerous and 
helpless family ; Providence will point out and rhey will hn out 
a way in which rhey can do without you. It has always been 
your duty to stand ready to giv'e up this world, and let it go, if 
required, at a momenCs warning. This is the duty of all men, 
at all times; tbr iiie is just as uncertain as it is certain that they 
have once to die. 

Much more is it your duty at this time, after you have 
been warned fv)r many days b} this ver\ threatening diyejt^e, 
which is upon you. VVhatever you may think of the strong ties 



86 OOKSOLATIOKS OP 

which bind you to the world at this time, and however ardeat 
your desires may be to accomplish this or that object, yet for 
anything you know, you ma^ be in a more favordble condition 
to leave the world now, than vou ever would be again. You 
know not what changes might take place, nor how much worse 
your affairs might grow. Thus far with respect to what you 
would leave behind; I think you should be calmly reconciled 
to give it all up. iNovv with respect to yourself; it is infinitely 
more important that you should be resigned to give yourself up. 
There is no one who can be so much affected by your death as 
yourself. Great, unspeakably great, is the change which you 
will experience. But a few days ago you were strong and ac- 
tive. You are now reduced and very feeble. The change 
through which you have already gone^ is great; but is princi- 
pally in your body. That through which you have yet to go, 
is much greater. Your soul and body are still together, but in 
death they will be forced to pan, and your soul will enter upon 
a new and untried state of existence. Man is continually pas* 
sing from change to change, through all his earthly career, and 
the greatest of all is reserved for the last. In this he is literal- 
ly and actually to be taken to pieces; not like a machine which 
is not conscious and has no feeling ; nor yet like the brute which 
eannot forsee that death is to come upon it, nor perhaps even 
know it is dymg when it is. This man can do for years before- 
hand; he approaches this last greatest change, in which he is 
to be taken to pieces, knowing that it must come, and that he 
eannot escape it. He draws nigh to it with all the combined 
and exquisite feelings of soul and body. No wonder that death 
is terrible, that it is the "king of terrors ;'' for this change it« 
self- this *' failure of heart and flesh" — this rending asunder 
of soul and body, (saying nothing about the eternal consequen- 
cefe that are to follow,) is awful and frightful work. And when 
these consequences are brought to view, it is doubly so. 

Therefjre death is justly looked upon by all mankind as the 
most serious and frightful scene through which they have to 
pass here below. 1 do not speak thus to alarm and startle you, 
but oeca !se it is true. As such the scriptures rec; guise it. It 
would ill become rne to flatter you at this most serious time, by 
representing death to be nothing more than a slight chunge. — 
And it would be equally improper for me to say nothing about 
it. It Id, my sacred duty as a minister of the gospel, to speak of 
it according to truth, not with a view to terrify you, bur to pre- 
pare your raihd to meet it as calmly as possible, being an en- 
en>y. if r)Ot the greatest yet very nrreat, and the last wi'h which 
you will have to contend in this visible world. As 1 have feiiidj, 



THE AFFLieTEB. 3t 

that which makes death so terriffic, is not so much the ciissolu-: 
tion of n^itare,as what is to follow. We are fully aad familiarly 
acquainted wi'h every thing that takes place befjre death. We 
may approach death step by step, seeing plainly the ground on 
which we tread; discovering nothing but what we have before 
known, and feeling nothing but what we have already expe- 
rienced through our ordinary senses; but the very first step Ije- 
yond is very miich in the dark, untried and unknown by con- 
scioiisness or any thmg that our sense's have before experieu'* 
ced. We know nothing of it by sensation or cbasciousness — 
we have never felt it in our souls or bodies. 

All we know or can know about it, is ihrough faith, founded 
upcn the dim light of nature, and upon the declarations of the 
Bible. Whatever we experience, we know for ourselves, and do 
not need the testimony of others. For instance, you know that 
yon are diseased without the testimony of others; but you know 
nothing of what took place before you were born, without be- 
lieving what you havs heard from others. In that way you may 
know many things to absolute certainty. Those who were aiive 
then, saw and heard, &c. the things which they have r*^lated to 
you. With ihem they were matters of experience; they used 
their senses to obtain their kr.G;v!cMg;c; ^r,d bv bcJicvi:;;:; theni^ 
you also use their senses instead of your own, to gain he same 
knowledge. If they are honest and true men, I say you may 
know even to ab olute certainty, many things which you have 
not experienced. 

B*>t it is not so with respect to things beyond death. No one 
that you ever saw die was able after death to give you any ac- 
count of things which he saw and felt. You see nothing but 
the dead body, and you hear no voice. You know nothing of 
what he has experienced — you cannot gain any knowledge 
through Ms senses. 

Neither can th se persons who have been drowned, or died in 
any other way, and l)een brought to life by the skill of the physi- 
ciins, give any satisfictory account of what they saw or heard 
while rhev were dead, or at least appeared to be dead. No, 
nor even those wh > have been known to be dead, and were mi- 
raculously raised from the dead by our Sivioar, gave any ac- 
count oi what they had learned and experienced while dead. 
L-z. r'iS, 'Alioni hundreds knew io be dead, and who lay f»ar 
days in the grave, and wa^ raised from the dead by the almighty 
power of Josiis Chri-t, gave no account of thiiigs beyond death. 
Thvire is no record of his telling his friends any thing il>out even 
the first sS-^p whi h he took after die breath left his i-ody, nor any 
discoveiies that ho made while his body lay in the grave. 



38 CONSOLATIONS 6^ 

No, my dear friend, neither did Christ himself, after he rOs€ 
from the dead, give any information concerning those things 
which he sa\v and felt and experienced while dead. He rrdsed 
them from the dead, and rose himself, not only to show his own 
power, but to prove to mankind the great doctrine of the resur- 
rection of the body. To show them the possibility of a hisman 
body's being brought to life after it was totally dead. He did 
this to '^ become -he Hrst fr^iits of them that slept,"'' and to con- 
vince mankind that he would actunlly bring about the general 
resairection of all men as he taught. He did not do it to make 
any new experimental discoveries v»d{h a view of communica- 
lins them to the human family. We cannot doubt for a mo- 
ment, ^vhether it was in the power of the divine Saviour to make 
such communications if he had thought best; and v^e may na- 
turally ^nd reasonably supp^^se that all those who were raised 
from the dead would have done it had they been able, and God 
had permitted them. 

Certainly they w^uld have taken great pleasure in telling^ 
their friends and relations what they might expect immediately 
after death. Their pleasure would have been exceedingly great 
to have brought up some news from the dead. This is greatly 
desired hy mRiikind^Rnd if it bad been in their power, they 
would have rejoiced in ecstacies to have communicated it to 
them. Yv)u are not to suppose that they nei<her s iw, nor felt, 
nor experienced any thing in their souls while their bodies were 
dead. As I have already said, " G^d is not the God of the 
dead, but of the living." Though they were dead in their bodies, 
yet their sos-is were alive. And if ihey were alive, they had 
feelings — they had knowledge — i^therwise they could not have 
been alive. But these feelings and this knowle^^ge were en- 
tirely new, and could not be expressed or communicated by 
them, w hen raised to life, in the manner in which knowledge 
and feelings are communicated by men in this present state of 
existence. Thtis it was impossible for ihem to make known 
any thing about the state of the dead. In like manner th ;se 
who in ''visions and revelations of the Lord," have seen the 
realities of the invisible wond have been unable or forbidden 
to tell or communicate what they saw. The apostle says, '* I 
knev/ a man in Christ how that he was caught up into para- 
dise, and heard unspeakable words, which it is not lawful fur a 
man to utter." 

I do not say that God could not fiave enabled them to have 
done it even through rheir ordinary senses, and made it lawful; 
but one thing is cert-nii, tbathe did nor. He has not chosen 
this way to give us any knowledge of the invisible world. But 



THE AFFLItJTED, 39 

this is the way in which we most naturally and most strongly 
desire to have it. Nevertheless, it has not been thought best 
by him to gratify us. Christ, who was dead, but rose again, 
and is alive for ever more, and had all power, could, if he had 
thought best, have told mankind what he sav/ and felt while in 
the state of the dead; but he did not do it. This is not God's 
way. In his righteous sovereignty he determined that no one 
should see and ieei for us and report unto us thmgs beyond 
death. He was resolved that we sh >uld take his bare word for 
it, or know nothing about it, till we should die, and go and see, 
and feel, for ourselves, the things which are to be seen and felt in 
the invisible world. His word he considered enough; all that 
was necessary; and certainly he was the best judge. This he 
has graciously given us. lie has spoken unto man by crea- 
tion. Creation has ever spoken both to his eye and his ear; but 
her voice was weak and faint — the light of nature was dim. 

Neverthetheless, it faintly declared and showed man to be 
immortal. This, however, is far from being all the voice that 
God has used. He halh not only *'at sundry times, and 
in divers manners, spoken in times past unto the fathers by 
the prophets, but halh in these last days snoken unto us by his 
Son.'' His very Sou, ''our Saviour Jesus Christ, hath appeared 
and brought life and immmorlality to light through the gospel ^^ 
He hath plainly spuken and declared the great truth that there 
is another world, into which the spirits of men will enter at the 
moment they leave their bodies. To the thief expiring on the 
cross, he said — "this night shalt thou be wiih me in paradise.'^ 
He and his servants even taught that in the nivisible world 
there was a paradise for the righteous, and a prison for the 
wicked . The common name for the one is heaven; that for 
the other is hell. 

Heaven is represented in many difi'erent ways, and by vari- 
ous comparisons, to be a place of perfect happiness. In no 
fewer ways arid by various comparisons, is heii described to Le, 
a doleful prison of endless wo and misery. The doctrine of the 
resurrection of the body and reunion of the soul and body in X\i% 
invisible world, is fully taught. About the manner of these, 
God has spoken nothing. He has only said, but very plainly 
said, that heaven is a happy place — hell a place of misery. — 
That at the general resurrecticn the constituent part^ ol men 
would be brought.togeiher; so that they -would again l)e com- 
plete, having souls and bodies, every faculty ol the souls of the 
righteous being advanced to perfection; and their bodies I eiug 
fashioned like unto the glorious body of Christ. Then ai the 
general judgment, it is said of the wicked — "these shall go 



4i CONSOLATIONS OF 

awiv into everlas4n^ piinsKmant: but the righteous into life 
et^raii." This geieid description of the invisible worsd, 
wbi- h your s ui will enter imoiediateiy aOer death, is all that 
it has pleased God to give to poor d ing men Perhaps all 
thi^ he could give them in their present gross state of existence, 
bein«{ so very m ich embodied in matter as they are, and know- 
ing so little as they do about pure and disembodied spirits. 

When men are not satisfied with this, and d' not believe and 
em' race what G d has spoken c-mcerning the invisible world, 
witho;«t wantirjg to Icnow more, or to know it in a different way, 
they must be satr tied to know nothing about it. Like other 
men, they may see all the way to death, but not a step beyond: 
Rejecting what God has spoken, thev do not even know that 
there is an invisible world, a heaven, and a hell. 

But all those who believe and eml race what he has spoken, 
can see beyond death— know certainly th-Jt there is a heaven 
and a heU ; and that if they are rii>hteous, like t\}e believing thief, 
they vvilt immedialeiy after death flv away and enter pariulise. 

Certainly, it is enough f)r the ri;2;hteous to know that heaven 
is a place of perfect happiness, being content to know nothing 
about the particu'ars. As f ;r the wicked, they doubt and deny 
what God has spokerj of the invisible wor^d. and can know noth- 
ing about it, till they go and see, and feel for themselves. 

But you are a christian. You ^:elieve what God has spoken 
concerning the unseen world. You be ieve there is a hell, and 
that you was a sinner, and you felt, and still feel, as if you de- 
served to be sent to that doleful place of punishment. But 
through the amaziag mercy of God, Christ came to deliver men 
from sin ^nd save them fnm going down to hell. "He that 
be'ieveth shaU be saved: — he that beiieveih nor shall be damn- 
ed." He that believeth this is righteous — he that believeth it 
not is wicked; and we have already told you to what place the 
ri^rhteous go, and to what the v icked. You (Jo humbly trust, 
that through the tender mercy of God in ('hrist, you have, by 
the powerful influence of the Holy Spirit, believed th it (Christ 
came to deliver men from sin and save them from going down 
to hell — yea, evt^n to deliver and save you. You very humbly 
but confidently believe, " th'<t he was made sin for y<^)U, that 
you might be made the righteousness of God in hiin." That 
he died for you and has delivered vour soul from all its guilt 
and pollutions, and made you a righteous peyson in the sight of 
G id. That he has pardonded all your sins and left not a sin- 
gle charge againr^t you. That the great Comf )rter, who is al- 
so tho great Sini tifier, has done his part for vou, in executing 
the plan of salvation, and has sanctified your heart, cleansed it 



1:he afflicted. 41 

of things impure, made yovi holy, and sealed you an heir of hea- 
ven. You feel youx-self to be so, and ascribe it all to the mercy 
ot God in Christ. You feel yourself an entire debtor to the 
rich and saving grace of the God of love and pity. 

Thouf^h vou have this confidence that you are now righteous, 
and whether present in the body or absent from it, will be ac- ' 
cepted of God; yet you were not always so, and you have been 
deeply sorry that you were once altogether unrighteous. Your 
heart has been repeatedly moved and melted with ''that Godly 
sorrow for sin, which worketh repentance unto life, not again to 
he repented of" In short, you are a christian. You are a 
new creature. "Old things are passed away — ail things are 
•become new." Your heart has been emptied of all unholy pas- 
sions and feelings, and filled with all holy affections and graces. 
You have not now to begin to think about the work of salva- 
tion in this hour of racking pain and distress, but have long been 
engaged in it, have long been "growing in grace and in the 
knowledge of your Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ," till you 
have arrived, (as you humbly trust,) to some degree of tnatu- 
rity in the divine life and in conformity to the image of God. 
Thus, through the amazing and unaccountable grace of 
God, you feel yourself to be righteous in all respects, and "made 
meet for the inheritance of the saiots in light." Bui it is only 
the wicked that "go away into everlasting punishment," 

What need have you then, to think of hell? You have noae. 
Not the slightest thought need come into your mind about ''the 
worm that never dies — the unquenchable fire — the everlasting 
fire prepared for the devil and his angels." If you think of it 
atall,you may think of it only as a place of indescribable and ev- 
erlasting punishment for the wicked, from which you have mado 
your escape- You have escaped "from the wrath to come." 

And what is there beyond death, my dear friend, that is ter- 
rible, but hell? Nothing — no, not even the shadow of any 
thing. But on the contrary, all that is desirable. If your 
character is really such as you profess, and I have described ; 
if you have indeed escaped from sin and unrighteousness, you 
need fear nothing that will follow after death. 

Therefore, if it be the will of God to remove you at this time 
into the invisible world, there is no reason why you should not 
lie entirely resigned to giv^e yourself up. The great change 
which you will experience, will be for the better, and not for 
the worse. About that which is to follow you are satisfied The 
momentous and all-important question to which place you will 
belong m the invisiWe world,thc paradise or the pri9on,issettle(J. 

4 



42 CONSOLATIONS OF 

By escaping from sin and unrighteousness, you escape from 
the second death,, which is eternal death. ThifJ death, is infi- 
nitely more terrible than the first death, which is the dissolu- 
tion of nature. The dissolution of nature — the death of the 
body — we cannot escape , no matter how righteous we may be. 
But O, my dear fellow christian, how happy is it for us, and 
how our hearts ought to be filled and overflow with gratitude 
to God , for providing a way by which we can be saved from 
eternal death in hell! This is that death which is terrible. — 
'Ihis is that awful thing which is to follow the death of the 
bodies of the wicked, which causes them to tremble and shud- 
der. And well they may, for frightful as the death of the body 
is, it is nothing in comparison to eternal death. This has in it 
every thing that is awful. Of all things that have ever been 
brought to the view of man, it is the most terrible. We all know 
what sufferings are in this life; and we feel them to be great be- 
fore we come to die the first death — the death of the body. — 
This we find to be the greatest calamity (as I have said) that 
befalls human nature beneath the sun. But the death of the 
body is only the more full mtroduction to eternal death. Eter- 
nal death is the great evil of evils, the infinite, endless, and in- 
describable calamity which is to come upon the wicked. 

But Christ hath appeared and by his ow^n peculiar, infinite, 
and unknown sufferings and death, has more than equalled, and 
has actually abolished eternal death for all who will believe 
in him. This you humbly trust you have done. Therefore, you 
feel yourself delivered from this unequalled, this greatest of all 
calamities, from hell and the death that never dies . Therefore 
I repeat it, if it be the will of God that your body should die 
at this time, there can be no reason why you should not be en- 
iitely rcvsigned to his holy will. God is a great Creator and a 
great King; he has many worlds, some smaller, some greater. 
The earth is one. You now find yourself here upon the earth, 
and like the rest of your fellow beings, passing through to an- 
other of the worlds of the great King. All that are alive, the 
whole family of man, are moving onwards in the same march. 
Such are the arrangements, such is the plan of the great King. 
Human beings are to begin and pass through the first stage of 
their existence here, then move on to another. Believing and 
feeling yourself to be immortal, that you have commenced an 
existence that will never end, and taking this extended view of 
the march of man, and knowing that neither you nor any other 
can be exempted from thi^ march — 1 am persuaded that from 
this, and the various other considerations which I have men- 
ioned, y ou wi 11 be unreservedly resigned to die. 



THE AFFLICTED. 43 

To the infidel, life and immortality are not brought to light. 
He does not know nor believe with any certainty, that he has 
commenced an existence that will never end, and that he is 
moving on from stage to stage, according to the plan of the 
great King. He believes as far as he can see, and he sees that 
it is the arrangement and plan of God for all men to die. 

From this consideration, many of them reconcile themselves 
to meet death. They determine not to look one step beyond. 
With regard to the future, they blind and stupify themselves, 
blunt their feelings, harden their hearts, and lull their con- 
sciences to sleep, and if God leaves them to themselves and does 
not wake them up and frighten them by bringing to their view 
the terrors of eternal judgment, they die as composed as the 
christian, step off into proK»und darkness, and pass on till in 
heli they wake and ''lift up their eyes, being in torments/' — 
Bui perhaps, far the larger part die in so much horror as to 
terrify all aj^out them. 

Not so with you ; you steadily and firmly believe that the 
great King has indeed many worlds; that you have only com- 
menced your existence here in quite an inferior condition, un- 
der many disadvantages and difficulties, and that at death you 
will be advanced to a more exalted and happy state. 

You believe that the great King governs all his worlds, the 
whole universe, by one connected and unbroken plan, and that 
it is a part of his extended and stupendous plan to reedem and 
save, through Jesus Christ, a mysterious but real Saviour, all 
those from among men that believe in him and seek salvation 
through him. 

In developing this part of his plan to men he has not only 
brought life and immortality to light for those that will believe, 
but for their encouragement has made known unto them the ex- 
istence of another and higher order of beings, called angels. It 
is generally thought that all his worlds are inhabited ; but this is 
not certainly known. The christian, however, certainly knows 
that there are angels in heaven, mighty, and holy, and happy 
spirits, superior to man. He is informed that at death he will 
be admitted into their happy society. These pleasing truths 
the infidel does not embrace, but rejects. And perhaps like a 
" Sadducee, believes that there is neither angel, nor spirit, nor 
resurrection of the dead." Therefore, when you view the 
march of man, you follow him not merely to the cold and silent 
grave, but throughout the endless ages of eternity. You are 
favored with a fiu^ther development of the plan of the great 
King than the infidel. He sees only that part of his plan which 
reaches the short distance of man's march upon the earth — 



4i co:n'solations of 

You see that march in its whole course through never ending 
duration. If it is possible for the infidel to be reconciled and 
iresigned to die, from his limited view of the plan of the areat 
Kiiig^ how much more possible is it for you? Before him, when 
dying, there is no light at all, not a single ray— but thick and 
impenetrable darkness. You may see, not with your common 
e\es, but with the eye of faith, not only the vast and glorious 
paradise of the great King, but all the saints and angels that 
dwell there. 

The doleful prison with its glooms, and horrors, and woes, and 
weeping, and wailing, and gnashing of teeth, is not before 
you; but the blooming heavenly paradise with all its fragrant 
trees, "and the tree of life, which is in the midst, and its rivers 
of pleasure which flow for evermore." This paradise is heaven, 
that glorious and happy resting place which God has prepared 
for weeping weary pilgrims. Into this paradise you may as con- 
fidently and certainly expect to step, the moment your body is 
dead, as you ever expected any thing which depended upon the 
truth and veracity and power of God. Though your pains and 
sorrows are at this time very distressing, and you are truly in 
great tribulation, yet you feel as if you had "washed your robeg 
and made them white in the blood of the Lamb." Therefore, im- 
mediately after death, you will be ''before the throne of God, 
and serve him day and night in his temple: and he that sittetb 
on the throne, shall dwell wdth you. You shall hunger no 
more, neither thirst any more : neither shall the sun light on 
you, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the 
throne, shall feed you, and shall lead you unto living fountains 
of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from your eyes; 
and, for you, there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor 
crying, neither shall there be anymore pain: for the former 
things will then all be passed away." 

"O, the transporting rapturous scene that rises to your sight, 
Sweet fields arrayed in living green and rivers of delight." 

Paradise! paradise! with all its fruits and flowers, its waving 
trees, its hills, and plains, and rivers of pleasure; gently flow- 
ing forever more. O, my dear christian, let your faith be 
strong, and look away to this blissful place! 

See the happy saints and angels, w-andering in every direc- 
tion, plucking delicious fruits from every blissful bough — de- 
lighting themselves under the arbors, among the flowers,through 
the groves, over the hills, down the valleys, across the plains, 
and by the gentle, winding waters' side. 

In the midst, is the city of the great King, the grand metrop- 
olis of all his worlds — his mansions, in which some are reposing 
his palace, ''and his throne, high and lifted up." Behold them 



I 



THE AFFLICTED, 45* 

collecting together from all parts, gathering in through all- the 
golden streets, coming forth from all their shining mansions.^ 
and in one general assembly surrounding the throne of the great 
Jehovah to worship before his Majesty I Glorious and happy 
assembly! men and angels innumerable, that no tongue can 
number, all bound together by the sweetest, strongest cords of 
love, yea, filled with love and unspeakable bliss ! See Abraham 
and Isaac and Jacob there,^ and all the ransomed from among 
men, ''the spirits of just men made perfect." Perfect in everj^ 
thing that is good and excellent. Perfect in knowledge. Ail 
that ignorance which once filled their minds, surrounded them 
and beclouded their sight, is fled away. They no longer " look 
through a glass darkly." All heaven is open to their view, with 
its ineffable and transporting sjlories. They not only behold, 
but are among the holy angels v/ho have always been faithful 
and true ; they see God. 

They are perfect in wisdom, unerringly wise to shun all 
evil, and infallibly to choose the greatest good. They are per- 
fect in holiness, a glorious company, or " church, not having 
spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing, holy and without blemish." 
All pure within, every particle of sin and corruption being re- 
moved. They are now the sons of light, the sons of God, ad- 
mitted into his kingdom of glory, clothed with white robes, hav- 
ing palms in their hands, crowned with starry, glittering, incor- 
ruptible crowns. Thus arrayed in heavenly attire, they are fit 
to appear before the great King, to approach near their almighty 
Father's person. They are perfect in strength — all their weak^, 
ness is left behind. They have put on immortal youth and 
vigor, and never tailing strength 

O, my dear christian, observe! You see no weakly one, no 
pale countenance nor crippled frame; none blind, none deaf, 
none dumb, none lame, no diseased person in all that vast ex- 
tended host! There are no beds of sickness there, like this on 
which you lie, and toss, and groan. No scorchin<]^ fevers, nor 
wracking pain, nor fatal disorder preying upon their vitals, nor 
any sj^mptom of deatla^ From all these they are delivered ; over 
them and all enemies, they rejoice and triumph in eternal safety. 
They are perfect in happiness. All that which was promised 
on earth, they now enjoy. 

That which, while here, their eye had not seen, nor their ear 
heard, neither had entered into their hearts — their eye now sees, 
their ear hears, and fulness of joy enters into their hearts, from 
the inexhaustable fulness of the eternal and unchangable God- 
head. And to crown the whole, thev ar© secured and confirmQ<^. 

4^ ' 



46 CONSOLATIONS OF 

in this happy state for ever and ever, by the truth and pdwer of 
Him, bef')re whose throne, they adoring stand. 

It the spirits of redeemed sinners are made thus perfect, and 
lappy, and glorious, what must the angels be who never sin- 
ned? They are the morning stars which sang together, they 
are the sons of God, that shouted for joy when he laid the foun- 
dation of the earth. Each one shines like a star, brilliant and 
glorious; each one is a son of God, of higher grade than 
the spirits of just men made perfect. Cast 3' our eye over 
the countless host of these heaven born sons of the Deity, who 
shine with such surpassing lustre that they are called stars. — 
See with what superior l&ftiness, glory and dignity, they standi 
about to worship the eternal Jehovah ! They are arrayed in or- 
naments, according to their rank and dignity ; observe their 
flowing robes of spotless white, of heavenly texture, and heav- 
enly glory, such as become high, and holy,and mighty and hap- 
py angels to wear. 

See the starry, dazzling, angelic crowns, which rest upon therr 
lofty heads. And that you may be elated and enraptured with 
the view, continue your gaze till the v/hole assembly, '*this in- 
numerable company of angels, together with the church of the 
first-born among men which are written in heaven," perform 
one united act of heavenly worship. They are in the midst of 
the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem. They are 
come unto mount Zion, the true Zion above, on which the throne 
of God is erected. They have assembled in full assembly, round 
this holy hill, and aw^ful throne, '*' to offer unto God thanksgiv^ 
ing, and pay their vows unto the Most High." Call upon thy 
soul and all that is within thee, to witness the exalted worship 
of those innumerable and happy spirits. Behold in what per- 
fect order they stand, ready to move in exact concert and speak 
as with the voice of one. 

See them lift their crowns from their heads, all at the very 
same moment, and with the profoundest reverence, humility 
and solemnity, cast them down ^'before the throne, saying Holy, 
holy, holy Lord God Almighty, thou art worthy, O Lord, to 
receive glory, and honor, and power: for thou hast created all 
tilings, and for thy pleasure they are and were created !" "Bles- 
sing, and honor, and glory, and power be unto Him that sitteth 
upon the throne, and unto the Lamb, for ever and ever." Lis- 
ten at their loud, melodious, harmonious and enrapturing songs 
and Alleuias " It is as it were, the voice of a great multitude, 
and as the voice of many waters, and the voice of mighty thun- 
dering saying Alleuia: for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth." 
Bet us be glad and rejoice and give honor to him. Great 



THE AFFLICTED, 4J 

aiad marvellous are thy works, Lord God Almighty, just and 
true are thy ways, thou King of saints.^' 

Behold the face of the great King, shining and smiling upori 
them with divine complacency and approbation, while he freely 
and abundantly imparts into their hearts, all blessings, life and 
peace, and fullness of love, and fullness of joy, till they are fill- 
ed with all good; blessedness, blessedness complete, unspeaka- 
ble, infinite! O, who would not die? what christian would not 
die and go and be among them there, to see what they see, td 
hear what they hear, to teel what they feel, and to enjoy what 
they enjoy? To enjoy -^God, the fullness of him who fiUeth all 
in all." Certainly, my dear christian, if it be the will of God 
that you should die at this time, there cannot be the least re- 
maining reluctance in your heart; there cannot be one single 
tie of any kind, binding you to this world of sin and misery, 
which you would not be reconciled and resigned to see giving 
way — yea, which you would not be willing, and even rejoice to 
see snapped asunder. Firmly believing, with an apostle, that for 
you to die would be gain, yea, infinite gain. So that, like him, you 
are "willing ratiier to be abs^ent from the body, and to be pre- 
sent with the Lord, having a desire to depart, and to be with 
Christ; which is far better." If you feel thus, let me talk to you 
a little more plaioly about your departure. The counsels and ap- 
pointments ofGod are a profound deep. It is altogether unknown 
whether \^ou are to depart at this time or not. If you should, 
death is represented in the scriptures to be a great monster, 
standing in a dark valley, which is called '^ the valley of the 
shadow of death." It is a gloomy valley, overshadoued wiih 
thick shadows and filled with darkness. As I have already 
told you, there is no light admitted into this dismal valley fiOra 
any direction but one; and that is from heaven, through the 
channel of faith. 

No light will enter into the valley behind you and follow 
you. You will see none upon your right hand or upon your 
left. A gleam will enter from the farther end of the valley and 
will meet you. It will be brighter or less bright, according 
to the strength of your faith; and if you have no faith at all, 
there will be no light at all from that source, not even a gleam. 
If your faith be strong, that g^lram will be bright enough td 
lead you straight on, so that you will not stumble nor ste[) out 
of the way to the right or left. But the grim monster stands 
in the way, and you will have to meet him. 

What is more, you will not only have to enter the valley 
alone, without a visible friend, but unattended by such you will 
be compelled to meet the monster. Your dearj^and tender, and 



m CONGELATIONS OF 

affectionate relations and friends, may attend you down to the 
head of the valley. But there they must stop. However, de- 
sirous they may be to accompany you on still, to aid and com- 
fort you, there they must stop. Indeed, instead of aiding you, 
they may be an injury to you, in expressing and showmg their 
reluctance in giving you up and parting from you. Though 
you are perfectly resigned to die, and leave the world, and see 
and leel all your tenderest ties to them broken, yet it may dis- 
tress you to see their hearts wrung- with sorrow and broken 
with griet at the painful separation. Very likely in this situa- 
tion you will have to enter the gloomy valley. So soon as you 
shall have parted from them and entered in, you will proceed 
on, though not unattended, not alone. Oh no my dear christian, 
not alone ! Though you shall have left all visible friends be- 
hind, yet you will be attended by a great invisible friend, bet- 
ter than all others beside; so that you need not fear. 

What said one of old, when speaking of the goodness of God? 
^•Yea, though 1 walk through the valley of the shadow of death, 
I will fear no eviU for thou art with me; thy rod and thy stafi^ 
they comfort me." Great is the goodness of God and amazing 
his condescension. He knows your weakness and will conde- 
scend to be with you, and go with you through this dismal val- 
ley. Yea 'more, he will walk by your side, and even lend you 
his staff for you to walk with, to support and comfort you. — 
Though you have to meet the grim monster himself, and fall 
a prey to him, you need fear no evil. As you approach him, 
you will do well to remember that he is robbed of his sting. — 
His only weapon with which he could aistress, and mangle 
and torture, and eternally distroy his prey, was his sting. This 
Christ has plucked from him, so that he cannoi use it against 
those who believe in Christ. This poisonous and deadly sting 
was sin. Though he is not allowed to use his sting against rhe 
righteous, against true C'hristians, yet he has power without it 
to conquer them. But you will have this consolation. Not 
every one that is overcome and conquered is destroyed. War- 
riors sometimes surrender and Imcqme captives to the enemy 
with the hope that the conquerors will spare their lives, so that 
they may again be restored to their government. This the vic- 
tors may not do, but may cut them off, so that the time will 
neve r come when their government will againhave their servi- 
ces. Death is not such an enemy ; he has not such power. Over 
your soul he has no power at all ; it is your body only that must 
fall a prey to him,and this he cannot deslroj, he can only keep it 
a captive till the time appointed by God, and then he will be 
^.Ompelled to deliver it up. Then your body itself— this cor^ 



THE AFFLIGTED. 49 

ruptible shall put on inc rruption, and this mortal shall put 
on immortality. Then shall be brought to pass the saying that 
IS written, ^' Death is swallowed up in victor}^" Then you will 
be able to rejoice and exult, and triumph and exclaim— ''O 
death where is thy sting? O grave where is thy victory ?^^ but 
never till then. At this time you will have to surrender and 
remain his captive until that appointed day — that great and 
signal day of the general resurrection of the bodies of all men. 
Though God accompanies you and walks by your side in this 
dark valley, and right on to the monster himself, yet you are 
not to expect him to interfere. It is his design and purpose to 
permit him to conquer you. AH God will do will be to encour- 
age and support you to believe what I have stated to you. — 
That is, that your soul will not be injured by the monster, and 
immediataly after the conflict will enter Paradise; and that 
your body will only be Cciptivated and held in captivity for a 
time. He will keep you from fearing that the monster will 
swallow you up in victory forever, and make you believe that 
in due time you will thus swallow him up. Thus you will not 
be suffered to sink into frightful desperation. 

When you draw nigh to him and certaiiily know that you 
must meet him iii a moment or two, it will not be advisable for 
you to make an onset upon him and attempt to measure arms 
with him This will be all in vain and do you no good, but great 
injury. Your best way will be to become his easy prey and 
disappoint him as much as you can. Just quietly and calmly 
surrender yourself up, sink under his monstrous arms, if possi- 
ble, without receiving a single blow or having the least strug- 
gle, • So soon as your bod\ shall be clasped in the cold arras 
of the great andiuvii)<;ible, and insatiate monster, oefore whom 
all flesh must fail, you will proreed on through the remaining 
part of the vaUey with incor>ce«vaMy greater rapidity. You 
will no longer need a stafi ti; support your doubtful and mis- 
giving feet. God will convey yoa onward, not upon feet but 
up' n wings. You will be nehvered from the burden and in- 
cumbrance of your body. He will mount }'0u up on the wings 
of spirit, and yon will ^y "'swift as ao arrow cuts the air." yea, 
like a ray of light. In a moment, in the twmkling of an 
eye, you will be at the farther end of the valley. The 
outlet of the valley is also the inlet into heaven. The 
gate or door opens into heaven. He will cause it to fly 
open by the tou- h of a God, and bid you ^'enter into the 
joy of your Lord." You vvili spring forth out of the valley 
of d'lrkness into a woHrj of \igbi, a world of light, o^ iife, 
of glory; of honor and of full and eternal ble«aedaeg«i 



50 CONSOLATIONS OF 

You will be 3'ourself immediatel} "trans6gured,^' and will be 
within the heavenlv paradise, to behold with >oui own e^'es, 
with open face, its '' suee^ fields arrayed in living green and 
rivers of delight,'' its tVagrant trees ot lile and its charnciing 
flowers, with its beautiful rivers. &c. You will not, however^ 
delay any lenglhof time gazing upon these inferior delights, 
but will tnov'e rapidly on into the interior, into the mt-tropolis 
of the great King; right on t" that innumerable company and 
assembly of worshiping angels and men, to vhich I have en- 
deavored to direct your admiring gaze. Their attentioa u ill 
be turned towards you. Every eye will look upon you, and 
every countenance will smile with approbatioi upon the new 
comer. With one united voice, the] will rejoice, and shout 
you a most hearty welcome to their blissful realm, their happy- 
home. When you arrive among tbeni you will be most hkely 
first to meet those whom you knew upon earth. They will 
receive you into their joyful arms and give you a warm and 
feeling embrace, such as sj^irit? know and have. As you pass 
through their host, you will see the patriarchs, prophets, and 
apostles, but you will hurry on to the chrone itself, to receive 
the vvelcome of Jesus ynur Saviour. His human nature will 
strongly attract yur attention, appearing so mu' h like those 
beings whom you have been most accustomed ♦(> see. 

With the combined glory and amiableness of God, and man, 
he will cause his face to shine upon you. Yea, he will even 
pronounce upon you the e^reat welcome which he will repeat 
at the day of jods^ment upon all his f dlowers — 'Come you ran- 
soiritd of my Father, ifiherit the kirgdom prepared for you 
from the foundation of the world" at the same time taking you 
up into those very human arms into which he kindly took lit- 
tle children and blessed them, while on earth, giving you a 
divine embrace and pronour»r ng you blessed for ever. God 
The Fatlier, and the Holy Spirit will rejoice over you. All 
heaven will g.^ze upon the scene, and admire and rejoice, 
not merely over a repenting sinner, but o'. er a sinner saved, 
eternally saved, brought home to heaven, and glory, and hap- 
piness. All the " bells of the city" will ring yon a loud wel- 
come and every voice will say, Amen. 

You will not be overawed nor overcome but will be support^- 
ed to receive the whole with composure, and with joy unspeak- 
able and full of glory." You will indeed feel yourself in a 
new world, in new society, receiving new treatment and hav- 
ing new feeliniTs. You will feel enlarged. Your heart will 
be filled, yea, will -he ravished with joy and delight 

Thus my dear christian, I have talked to you plainly about 



THE AFFLICTED. §J 

death. ^ I have told you what you .nay reasonably not expect j 
and what you may expect accordiog to thd S Jiiptures In 
speaking of death I have used the figure of a valley which the 
Scriptures give us. Plain as my talk has beea, I feei as if I 
could not leave you till I talked still plainer to you on the sub- 
ject. I wish to lay aside all figures and converse with yon 
more familiarly and more clearly concerning your departure. 

The scriptures tell us to ^mark the perfect man, and behold 
the upright: tor the end of that man is peace." But they give 
us very few exirnples of the particular manner in which the 
perfect and upright have died. They tell u? that ''when Jacob 
had made an end of commanding his sons, he gathered up his 
feet into ihe bed und yielded up the g^ost, and was gathered unto 
his people." *'When Simeon took the child Jesus into hisnrms, 
he said, now Lord lettest thou thy servant depart in peace," but 
we know not that he t^en departed. The apostle when speak- 
ing of Abet, Enoch, Noah, Abraham, and the other ancient be^ 
lievers, s^ys, ^the^e all died in faith." 

Thus we are told in a general way, that they died in peace 
and m faith. No d^^uht they had peace with God and faith in 
him, and these are plainly exhibited in the case of Jacob. He ap- 
peared to die with composure and strng faith in God. But what 
opportunity had Abel to exhihit these? He died a sudden and vio- 
lent death Perhaps did not know a minute before hand that 
he was then to iie. Without a miracle he could not have ex- 
hibited just at the time, much peace or faith. Perhaps he was 
attacked and cut off so suddenly, that all he thought about at .he 
mornent'w IS to defend himself. Vet he was in a state of peace 
with God and died in faith. This it was possible for him to do and 
his faith not be in lively , peaceful exercise, owing to the sudden 
and jiainful cirf.umi^tances producing his death. And so common 
a thing it is for men to die in great pain and distress, that God 
has said very little in the scriptures about the immediate circum- 
stances of their death. He hath told us'^that the wicked is driven 
away in his wicke<iness: but the righteous hath hope m his 
d'- i.i." The rigiiteous hath hope in his death whether he 
dies a slow calm dt^ath, or is cut down in an instant; whether 
he is in possession of his senses or is deprived of them — 
Though he may not feel his hope to glow in his breast, yet he 
possesses it. It is true God has given us a very striking exam- 
ple of a happy death m the case of Stephen the first martyr. — 
You are not to expect, however, to die as he died. His death 
was not on'y uncominonly happy, but was miraculous. Go(i <l€- 
signed more in it than the pec^ce and satisfaction of his dyiqg 



^2J CONSOLATION*} GF 

servant. He was "a man luii of faith and of the Hol^rGhosu 
and of power.9 ane^ did great wonders and miracles among 
the people.^' Therefore he had many enemies who determin- 
ed to put him to death by stoning. S* furious were they 
that 'they gnashed on him withtheii teeth.'^ It was God's pur- 
pose to show these furious men, and all men, in all succeeding 
generations, th;»t his servants could not only die believing that 
there was an invisible world and that they would be bappy in 
it, but that it was possible for them to do this with composure 
even under a most violent shower of stones. Therefore, he 
enabled Stephen to d'w as he did. He opened the heavens 
iiato him and enabled him to be perfectly composed while, the 
stones were lighting upon him from every direction. So com- 
posed that it is said 'he fell asleep" He being full of the 
Holy Ghost looked up steadfastly into heaven, and saw the 
glory of God, and Je»u« standing on the right hand of God, and 
said (to his furious enemies) Behold, J see the heavens opened, 
and the son of man standing on the right hand of God," They 
were determined not to believe this. Therefore, '4hey cried 
out with a loud voice, and stopped their ears and ran upon him 
with one accord, and stoned Stephen, (-ailing upon God, and 
saymg Lord Jesus receive my spirit." Under this outory of 
theirs, which was with a loud voice, and under their shower of 
stones, he kneeled down and cried also ^vithaloud voice,so as to 
make them henr him in the midst of the loud noise — ^'L»>rd 
lay not this sin to their charge. And when he had said this he 
fell asleep." 

Thus this devout and holy man, when his eyes were closing 
in death, literally and actually saw with them the heavens 
opened and the glory of God, and committed his departing 
spirit into the hands of Jesus his Lord. But this was miracu- 
lous, and we read of no other man who was favoured with such 
a death. You are by no means, to expect to depart thus The 
heavens will not be opened unto you, so that with your comn>on 
eyes you can see ju'^t before you close them the glory of 
God and Jesus, and in this way commit your spirit into his 
hand-^ As I have said, this was not granted to patriarchs, pro- 
phets or apostles. These died in faith, no matter by what 
means or in what manner. But we are only told that some of 
them, as Jacob and perhaps Simeon, had faith in lively and 
pe iceful exercise at the time of their departure. The others 
.may not have been even this much favored. We hear nothing 
of miracles at their deathsc Many of them, we know died vio- 
lent deaths. Several ol the apostlets were crucified. 



Bat perhaps 1 speak improperly about a violent death, par- 
tiruiarly such a one as by crufixion. There is one great cir- 
cumstance ill which person? dyin^ such a death may decidely 
have the advantage, and by which they will be more likely not 
only to possess their right mind, but to have faith and hope 
in lively and peacefnl e^xercise. This circumstance is that they 
are not enfeebled in their bodies. Their bodies are the 
organs through which their souls act And these organs hemg 
fftrong,the s >ul may act freely and exhibit itself in its full strength. 
They may meditate and think upon the great change just he- 
fore them with all their powers of socil and body. They are 
in a more favorable condition to have believing views and 
cheering hope, than those who are reduced in their bodies, not 
Cbeiely dovvn to the feebleness and helplessness of infants, but 
oppressed with grievous and distressing pains and sufferings. 

We see that when God would give the world the most striking 
example of a believing and triumphant death, so much so, that 
he would work a miracle to complete the scene; he chose Ste- 
phen, a man unbroken by disease, his body possessing all its 
strength, and able to exhibit, by words and actions, all the views 
and feelings of his mind Just after he had put for th the most 
powerful mental and bodily exertions, in making a long and en- 
ergetic si»eeoh* to his enfuriated enemies, who not only disputed 
with him, but gnashed on him with the>r teeth. 

This God (lid, to prove to the world in a miraculous manner, 
by an exhibition of more than ordinary f^iith and hope, that 
mnn can die believing himself to be immortal, and that his spi- 
rit will not die atall, but may be committed alive, untouched 
l&y death, into the hands of Jesus. 

His death then waia uncommon, not only as being miraculous* 
but in that he diefl in his full strenig.th. It is not con)mon for 
men to die in their full strength, except in battle, and there 
they are not apt to exhibit much faith Your strength is in a 
^reat measure already taken from you, and if you die by this 
disease, it will be taken away more and more until you become 
perfectly feeble and die in weakness. This appears to be the 
natural way for man to die, ar.d the way in which God would 
have him to die, unsmitten by violence from others or by vio- 
lence administered by his own hand upon himself. This being 
the will and law of God, you need not be surprised that he has 
given us so few examples in the scriptures, of his people exiiibiting 
peaceful and lively faith and hope at tiie moment of their departure. 

No doubt you are impressed with the correctness and force of 
what I say, by tl^ feebleness and distress which are now n}x>n 
you. And you see and feel sensibly that if your strength contil^^ 



5*4* CONSOLATIONS OF 

ues to decrease a little longer, it will be very difficult for you tu 
collect your thoughts so as to be comfXDsed and have those clear 
views of the plan of salvation, and those happy feehngs, which 
you have had, at times, when all your strength was with you; 
when you were at ease, able to meditate and enjoy your medita- 
tations. No doubt you can look back to seasons when you have 
been alone with your Bible and your God, and have given yourself 
to meditation and thought and prayer till your faith grew exceed- 
ingly strong and your hope burned within you. You remember 
happy seasons when you have been at church, within the gates of 
Zion, in the courts of God's house, surrounded by the congrega- 
tion of the people, and you united with then) in singing the prais- 
•s of God, and gave yourself up to devout exercises in worshiping 
his holy Majesty, till your faith grew so strong that you felt as if 
nothing could shake it; as if all men could not induce nor per- 
suade nor tempt nor frighten you to doubt the truth and reality of 
religion. Yea, as if all men and devils combined cou d not cause 
you to doubt the truth and reality of your own established faith, 
and holy, comforting hope. These happy seasons 5^0^ may have 
had, but if you look for such in your dying moments you may be 
greatly disappointed. 

Remember that at these times, you were well and strong, and 
able to think profoundly, and bring to the view of }our mind all the 
numerous and plain evidences which support and confirm ihe truth 
«f our divine and holy religion. 

I am frir from saying that it is impossible for you to have those 
gomfortable views and feelings, even when the weakness of death 
is upon you. Tf you expect them with certainty you will most 
likely be mistaken. Very ft w, are favored with such views, and 
feelings in the dying hour. Perhayis not one out of a thousand. — 
You may have taken notice yourself, as you passed along through 
life, and witnessed the death of your fellow men, that very few 
seemed to exhibit such fai h and hope. 

It id true Cod can enable men to do it, even under the 
weakest state of body. And it is no less true that he has enabled 
a few to do it, in almost every age of the world. J have read, and 
perhaps you have read of his enabling, now and then one, (with- 
out miraclf^, as there Wr^s in thecase of Stephen,) to surprise alla- 
round -hem by the clearness of their views and the happy state of 
their feelings while the bre-^th was going out of their bodies. — 
Even in oinday you may have heard of or seen some such exam- 
ples. They are however very few, as I have said, perhaps not one_ 
out of a thousand. Men generally die in so much weakness, and 
pain and distress, as to exhibit no such view^s and feelings. It iis 
your duty to desire and pray that God would not only continue 



rHE AFFLICTEB. S*> 

ymr senses with you but would grant you such comfortable faith 
and hope, in your dying hour. 

But he has not answered all your prayers that you have put up 
through life, just as you asked them, so that you received the very 
blessing for which you asked ; and it would be presumption in yoa 
to expect certainly that he would grant this last one, and enable 
you not only to enjoy your senses, but to have faith and hope in 
peaceful and lively exercise. It would be more reasonable for you 
to expect to die as- men generally die, and as perhaps you have 
seen many others depart, without any very striking appearances of 
faith, hope or comfort. Dreadful are the pains, and struggles^ 
and agonies of death, and it is truly great and special mercy in 
<jrod to enable any one while experiencing them to exhibit those 
happy views and feelings. 

Should you not be enabled to exibit them, yet you will possess 
them. God will be faithful to you, he will not desert you, "• you 
will die the death of the riohteous, and your last end will be like 
his," if you approach thrit hour, feeling yourself to be made righto^ 
©us, as you humbly think you have been and now are. 

My dear feeble fellow mortal, you must trust in God when you 
die. You do not live, nor move, nor have your being in yourself. 
^^ You live, and move, and have your being in God." This is the 
case with you, and all men, whether thev are sensible of it or not. 
The great body of them do not a ppear to be sensible of it. There 
. may have been a time when you were not sensible of it ; when you 
did not feel your dependence on God. Before you embraced re^- 
iigiofi, you may have had no realizing sense, that you lived, and 
moved, and had your being in him. And even afterwards, you 
may have thought, that you believed you lived, and moved, and 
had your being in him, but at the same time had no deep and re- 
alizing sense of your entire and absolute dependence upon him 
for all things in life and in death. 

Previous to this present sickness, when you felt well and strong, 
very likely theie was but a faint impression upon your mind, of yout 
own weakness, and helplessness, and your entire and absolute de- 
pendence on God. Nevertheless you may have had some impres- 
sion of this great truth. 

But now you begin to realize it with all your heart, and in all 
your feelings. You find that vour own strength on which you de- 
pended begins to fail you. You had great dependence on your 
phisician and friends, but these begin also to fiil you. Their skill 
and power seem to be nearly exhausted, and you feel as if they 
now do yo'i little or no good, and that if you get a little worse they 
will be able to do you none at all. You naturally and necessari- 
ly look aionnd for one 1'^ Ms able to help. You know that vrvr 



5§- CONSOLATIONS OF: 

will look in vain to the princes and mighty men of the eartii^: 
they cannot help you. Your physician and friends can do as much 
for you as all the world besides. 

The whole world, with all its inhabitants, does actually begin td 
give way, and retire out of your view. Never before had you such 
a sense of the utter weakness of man, and the entire insufficiency 
of all earthly things. Now you have the sick man's views and 
feelings, which, they who have not been sick and brought nigh to 
death, know but little about. Now you are so far from having 
strength to attend to the schemes and affairs and business of this 
world, that it is all you can do to hold onto life, and you begin to 
feel as if you would not be able to do this much longer. The 
life of your body is supported by food; — by bread, and water, 
and air; and light contributes greatly to the comfort of man. 

All these great and only supporters of the life of your body, you 
begm to feel no longer able to recieve, and what little you do re- 
cieve of them, does not appear to reach your case, nor to contribute 
to the nourishment and support of your animal nature. You ca^ 
fake scarcely any food, or any drink; yea, so weak are you, that you 
can scarcely use the air itself, can scarcely breathe it into your 
lungs, and force it out again, to receive that which is fresh and mor^ 
active to support life. Yea, more, so weak are your eyes, that per- 
"haps you cannot bear even the light. Thus you begin to feel as if 
the time were nigh, when you could no longer eat, drink, s^e oif 
breathe. 

In short, when you will be able no longer to hold on toth& 
world, nor the world abfe to hold on to you; when you must let go 
of it, and youi friends must let go of you. O now! you begin to 
jsee, and reahze deeply, most deeply, that "vain is the help of 
man.'^ This declaration of the oracles of truth comes home to 
you with great weight, it finds its way into the very bottom of your 
heart, — " vain is the help of man." And now you feel, and real- 
ize your dependence on God. All language fails to expre.ss that 
deep and feeling sense, which you have of your dependence on the 
Divine Being. You see, and know, and feel, and reahze, that it is 
true, it is indeed true, that you depend on God — that he created 
you, and upholds you, and that he alone can take care of you in 
life and in death. You gladly make the <' Eternal God your re- 
fuge, and have underneath you the everlasting arms." In him you 
trust. — On him you rest your body and soul. This you have 
long endeavored to do, but have never yet done it so fully ?nd un- 
reservedly as you do it^ now. .You see, and are sensible, that he 
and he only, who made the universe and upholds it, can conduct 
the various parts and beings of it through those cfianges, through 
\Thiph he designs them topasS;and take carg of thep v;hile pas£-- - 



THE AFPIICTED, 57 

ing. That he alone can guide the innumerable worlds which 
wheel their circles in boundless space. That he not only does 
this, from the greatest to the least, but takes care of even the spar- 
rows when they fall. 

And here you remember with deep interest that encouraging 
declaration of the scriptures — '' Fear ye not therefore, ye are of 
more value than many sparrows." You feel yourself to be of more 
value than many sparrows. You have all confidence then that if 
God takes care of the sparrows when they fall, he will not fail to 
take care of you when you die^ You know that your soul is a 
spirit, and that God is a spirit; that spirit can act upon spirit; that 
he, the Great Spirit; can alone support and comfort your spirit, in 
the dying hour, while it is passing from time to eternity. You re- 
member with pecnliar pleasure the manner in which he took care 
of dying Stephen^s spirit, in the hands of the great Mediator, 
and you trust in him, that without a miracle he can take as good 
care of yours. From all these thoughts and considerations, you 
settle down into the most unreserved and confirmed trust in God. 
This is right. — This is just as it ought to be. And now, for your 
encouragement let me tell you the difference between your trust 
and the trust of the deist or infidel. You trust in God when you 
are dying, and so does the infidel. You believe there is a God, 
who is a spirit, and you trust in him, and so does he. The great 
diiference between your trust and his, consists in the following 
things. 

You believe that man in this world is a sinner in a state of sin 
and misery, and that God has laid a plan for his salvation, sent his 
son the great Mediator to execute it, and pointed out the means of 
this plan which man should use. Some of these means are t@ 
read it attentively, with an earnest desire to know the truth, and 
to pray with all the heart for salvation according to it, in God's 
own way, and not in a way of our own choosing. These with all 
other means you have most carfully used. 

The infidel doubts, and denies, and rejects this plan of salvation, 
and this Mediator; at the same time knowing that there is no other, 
and when he comes to die has not used the means pointed out in it^ 
His spirit has been at war with this plan, at war with the great 
Mediator, and he has resolutely refused to use the means of salva- 
tion, the moans of God's appointment. In this he has acted con^ 
trary to the manner in which he has acted in all the great concerns 
of life. He has ever used the means to procure food, and to pre- 
serve the life of his body. And while he was u^ingihem — while 
he was planting his corn and sowing his seeds, he very consistent- 
ly trusted in God for a crop — for food to keep liis body alive, but 
when he comes to die he has used no means for the salvation oC 



5^ I'GNSOLATIONS OP 

Bis souf. Nevertheless ire stupidly trusts in God for that.-^ 
Though God has given him no warrant, nor any encouragemenf 
whatever to trust in him, without using the means which he hag 
appointed, yet he does it. Having resisted the strivings of the 
Holy Ghost, and not having cried out "men and brethern what 
shall I dot*' Without ever having felt his sins pardoned, and 
removed from him — without ever having tasted a Saviour's love, 
or felt the strong supports of the Christian fath and hope, he trusts 
in God when dying. Without ever having believed the account 
given of the happy departure of Stephen'^s spirit, in the hands of 
the great Mediator, he trusts in God that his too will have a happy 
4eparture,in some unknown way, some way that he knows nothing 
of, and has no concern about. Thus he trusts in God. He 
rtins an indescribable risk for eternity, to say nothing more. — 
Not so with you. You run none at all. He is on the side of aw- 
ful hazard. You are on the side of perfect safety. 

Be consoled then! O be consoled my dear feeble fellow chris- 
tian ! and if God's good time has come for you to die in a few 
days, just continue to trust in him as you are doing, and he will 
ifekecareof you. Be calm and patient as you possibly can. 

Some little time before you come to the last moment, the last 
breath, while yet you have a little strength, if your senses be con- 
tinued with you, remember that Sampson in his dying hour killed 
Biore of God^s enemiei than in all his life ; do not fail to bear 
your decided testimony in favor of God's gracious plan of sal- 
ration. 

Speak most tenderly and affectionately to all those around you, 
according to what you know of the state of their minds. Witb 
the feeble accents of a dying christian, in whose heart is the love 
tf God, and who trusts in God through Jesus the great Media- 
tor, encourage those who may be standing round your bed that 
fire christians. Tell them that it is indeed true that God does 
not forsake the dying christian. And, if God so enable you, as- 
sure them, that even wD?r, you feel him to be "the God of all conb' 
fort," upholding and comforting your spirit. Tell them with youf 
voice faltering in death, and with a pleasant heavenly smile of 
your countenance, that it is certainly true, that you feel it to be 
fnie, "that the favor of God is life, and his loving kindness bt. / 
than life." And O! "when your quivering lips hang feebly dowa 
and your pulse is faint and few," with the same voice faltering ia 
iieath, and with the same pleasant heavenly smile, tell those that 
are no* christians to he christians. Tell them of the love of Jesi>» 
which you feel in your soul, and the full assurance of faith and 
hope which you have, that in a few moments you will be with him 
in kb hc^avenly kingdom. And if your voic© <io«6 not entire^^ 



ijki], and you can utter a sentenae or two more, let your last word^ 
to them and all around you be — "Prepare to meet your God!-<i*- 
Flee from the wrath to come!!" 

When you are no longer able tor speak, do not expect to see ar^ 
thing like what Stephen saw. Do not expect to see any thing 
atall more than you have always seen, till your dying strife andf" 
struggles and gasping are over. Mildly suffer them to raise yout 
head, and give you the drink and medicine which your physician 
and friends think best, till you are no longer able to swallow, be^ 
cause even after this you may recover. Your dear and beloved 
minister, after having made all these kind remarks and hints con- 
cerning the things and beings of this world and the next, froiB 
which and whom you may reasonably expect consolation — after 
h'.iving dicoursed to you at length about the heavenly world and 
endeavored to give you a description of it according to the scrip- 
tures — after having talked to you most freely and plainly about 
death, and given you perhaps, the best directions that are in the 
possession of man, how to die — after having given you at differ- 
ent times sufficient intervals to rest and gain strength to listen to 
him — after having spent the day, till the sun is now down and it is 
dark, kneels down by your bed side, and most earnestly and fer- 
vently prays to the God of all power, the God of all comfort and 
•onsolation, to pity you in your afflicted condition, "in your low 
estate." He pours out his soul most feelingly to the great, all-skill- 
ful and only infallible Physician, at whose bidding diseases fly, to 
rebuke your disease and cause it to leave your body, if it be agree- 
able to his holy will; that you may be delivered, and have strength 
and peace and comfort to serve him still longer upon the earth; if 
laot, that he would wholy resign you to depart and go hence, and 
that he would particularly bless you in your dying moments and 
take you to himself. He closes his prayer^ by most solemnly com- 
Slitting you and commending you to the care and keeping of al- 
mighty God. 

He then advises you to stop your thoughts and to sleep and 
i;est all you can through the night. — Leaves you a sacred promise 
to come and see you frequently, while your sickness lasts, and af- 
fectionately bids you " good night." Perhaps you get a little sleep 
during the night, but in the morning find yourself no better thaa 
on the preceding morning. The day is before you, but not a day 
of much pleasure or enjoyment. The taking of your medicine is 
to be attended to, and its operations waited upon. 

You are now not to expect consolation from any new source op 
ohject or hein^. You have your physician, and nurse, and fiieiids 
around you, N^th the best medicine, and the most suitnl)le and dcli- 
c?ate noaiishmeiit they can procure. You have the Bible and other- 



60 CONSOLATIONS Q'B 

sacred books fn your room: Yon can at any time pour out yfiur 
soul in earnest wrestling prayer to the *' God of all comfort," for 
help and consolation. And you may be consoled by the thought 
that the christians of your church are praying for you, and that 
all christians pray for the afflicted. 

Thus I have brought to your view all the great, the main things 
and beings, both of this wor'd and the next, which are calculated 
to minister consolation to your disconsolate soul. Your kind 
minister of the gospel was the last being of this world whom I 
presented to your view. He is himself of this world, but hisbu^ 
siness is to labor mostly for the world to come. This being his 
more particular and special business, you plainly see the reaswi of 
his having made so long an address to you. In his address he was 
careful to bring to your view the things and beings of this world , 
and point you to creation and providence, for themes on which 
you might meditate, for your encouragement and consolation. — 
This was with a view to your still living and lemaining here. — 
But you observed, he said much more, and was much more par- 
ticular in speaking to you concerning the things and beings of 
the next world , The propriety of this you readily perceive, since 
it is his special business to attend to the interests of the next 
%vorld for himself and others. Having a deep and feeling sense 
of the great difference between the short duration of time and the 
endless duration of eternity, and also of the unspeakable value of 
the human soul in all that it is capable of suffering and enjoying, he 
has said every thing that he could to encourage you to live, if it 
be the will of God, and every thing to console you in view of 
death, if that be his will. But, as J have said, he is the last being 
or thing, which 1 shall bring to your view for your consolation. — 
In truth, I know of no others which are calculated substantially 
to console you. These seem to be all. It appears to me that you 
will look in vain to other sources. It will be your wisdom to 
make the best you can of these, and if you recover, well, but if 
you die, you must. 

You are not to think that the sources of consolation and help, 
which I have spoken of your having, are fewer or less efficient 
than other poor mortals have in their afflictions. Few, very few, 
who lie upon the bed of sickness and languishment, have the at- 
tention and help and advantages which I have spoken of your pos- 
sessing. Being convinced then, that you are sensible of this, I 
will follow you on to the crisis which is but a short space before 
you. You have just entered upon another day. They gently lift 
you off your bed — wash your face and bunds and tenderly comb 
your hair — carefully right up your bed and lay you back upon it. 
Tou are very weak and in much pain and distress, As the hours 



*mE AFFLICT^:!), (|i 

■rmve liloiag, at tihies when you feel a little composed and a little 
more like living, you naturally think about those things of this 
world which your very friendly minister has brought to your view. 
While you are thus indulging, you think of all that was pleasant 
in life, of all the affairs and duties of life. And here your defi- 
ciencies in discharging your duty to your fellow men in former 
days come into your mind. However much you may have been 
disposed to do good, and however active you may have been ia 
doing it, you now feel as if you had done nothing in comparison 
to what you might have done. The field of usefulness among 
men appears to you now to be exceedingly extensive. You sec 
how you have neglected a thousand opportunities in which you 
might have said or done something that mi^^ht have been of great 
use to the souls and bodies of your poor fellow mortals. You feel 
that if it would but please God to restore you to health, you would 
€o more good in his service, and fot the best interests of man,ia 
©ne day, than you formerly did in a month; For this purpose a 
desire to live arises in your breast. You feel like vowing to the 
Lord, and perhaps, in your soul do vow to him, that if he will 
raise you up again, you will be far more unreservedly and more 
feithfully his servant than you have ever been. Will spend and 
be spent for his glory and the good of man. You think of the 
nature and symptoms of your disease, to see whether it is not yet 
possible for you to recover. With the anxious and earnest look 
of one on the very verge of eternity, you turn to your physician, 
and say — " Doctor is it possible for me to get well ?" O yes! O 
yes! he replie?^ that is the very thing for which we wish you to 
hope, and there is still groJ^P/J of hope, My dear patient! you 
must not despair. You must hope; it is your duty to hope ae 
long as there is the least encouragement. Just before this yoU 
felt yourself to be balanced upon the pivot between time and eter- 
nity, but this revives you a little, and you feel inclined to the side 
of life. You are willing to live if it be the will of God. Ac- 
cording to the nature of the human mind, you cannot will tw© 
different and opposite things at the same moment. You cannot 
will to live and die both at once. As a creatui^e ^ a dependent be- 
ing, and particularly as a christian, it is your duty to will what 
God wills concerning you. Your will should be swallowed up iij 
his will. But he has not revealed to you the exact time wheu 
you shall die. You feel fully resigned to his will, in wha-ever 
vf^y he m^y cause the scales to turn. And now he seems to be 
causing the scale of time to outweigh, and you have no objec- 
tions. You are willing to recover, and for a time longer npou 
the earth, to spend and be spent for the glory of God and the good 
of msuT, 



Q2 CONSOLATIONS OP 

But, these feelings and symptoms and hopes, in favor of life^- 
continue only a short time, not more than an hour or two. The 
scale of eternity now begins to preponderate, and jour face 

and eyes are suddenly turned from time to eternity. You 

are exceedingly weak and unable to bear much. You have 
dreadful distress in your stomach, and bowels, and head. You 
feel like fainting away. Your kind nurse applies the stimulating 
camphor to your nose, bathes your temples and forehead with it, 
and gives you a little wine or other stimulus. You are revived 
a little, but your face is still turned towards eternity, and you can- 
not look at the things of time. Your kind minister comes in~ 
says nothing about the things of time — adds a few words con- 
cerning the glories and bliss of the eternal world — prays with you, 
and retires. You now turn your whole attention for consolation, 
to the invisible world. You think of the great invisible comfort- 
er, the Holy Ghost— of the angels — of the spirits of departed 
saints — of Jesus the Saviour, and of God the Father of all.— 
Your view of thp heavenly paradise is still more realizing. You 
almost feel yourself to be there. It is not the fact however. You 
are still in the body, and sp^idinga day on the earth where the sun 
shiiies; but the sun is now setting and the day is closing; and with 
the declinging day, your strength is declining. The neighbojrs 
in every direction are enquiring how you are? how you are? 
Whether you are still alive? Some of them come in to see 
you and to sit up with you during the night. The sun is now 
down, and the shades of the night have come into your room. — 
O the dark and gloomy hours of night ! so unpleasant and dread- 
ful to the feeble and languishing sick ! It comes upon you now with 
^ gloom of uncommon and ten fold thickness! your spirit lan- 
guishes. They light up the candles and decide among themselves 
how they will manage during the night.* Your nearest and dear- 
est relations, and your kind and faithful nurse have now become 
wearied out by being broke of their rest in nursing you. Most 
of tbem retire to other rooms and lie down to rest / but your faith- 
fbl nurse, though she is overcome, cannot bear the thought of 
leaving your room. She sinks under her fatigue upon a bed at 
the further side, and falls asleep. 

The doctor is still with you, and till now you have been calcu- 
lating wiU} certainty that he would stay with you during the night* 
But at this time he is forced to tell you that he has other patients 
whom he must see immediately. Therefore he turns to the kind 
neighbors who have come in to wntch with you, and gives them par- 
ticular directions how to manage you. Points out to them all the 
medicines and drinks and stimulants which they are to give yuU 
iiwring the night. He steps away to theiji afld tells thei» in a 



whisper, so that you cannot ht^-ar, that if you gfii very low and 
your extremities become cold, they must apply warm irons or 
bricks or stones wrapped m cloths to the soles of your feet — use 
the camphor freely about your nose and temples, and other parts 
of the body, particularly the back bone, and giVe you as large 
quantities c>f stimulants as you can bear. He is now ready to 
leave you — he returns to your bed side, takes you by the hand and 
very affectionately bids you "good night." He retires and shuts 
the door afier him. Bat O! O! O! there you lie upon the bed, 
nvith every prospect of its being the bed of death. You groan-— 
your hand falls upon the bed and you feel like giving up. In a 
few hours, sure enough, you sink very low and your extemities 
begin to feel cold. Your faithful attendants go to work with great 
activity to restore the vital heat of your system — to warm ^ou up 
and revive you. They succeed; but in doing it they bring yotii 
from one extreme to another, from coldness to too great heat, and 
your distress is equally great if not greater than when you were 
sunk so low. In this manner you drag out the longest and most 
dreary night that you have ever passed upon the earth, and in the 
morning are evidently no better, but weaker and worse. So soon 
as d^^y dawns, your physician comes in, bringing with him every 
thing of which he could think that promises in the least to relieve 
you. He inquires how you had got through the night. Your 
kind attendants give him a particular account. You are sc» low 
however, as to pay veiy little attention even 1o him. He renevvg 
his exertions with increased energy and faithfulness — determinefi 
to spend the day with you, and the night too, if necessary. He 
stands over you and watches you every moment, and at the very 
iirst af)pearance of an alarming symptom or unfavorable change, 
endeavors to meet it and check it with the very best means in his 
power and to the very best advantage. Thus he keeps you along, 
evidently however, growing worse till about mid-day; when you 
turn your eyes up, and with indescribable earnestness, look him ia 
(he face, and say — "Doctor I seriously wish you to be candid and 
tell me what you tliink now of my case ?'' he replies, " my dear 
patient, I am very loth to say any t]}ing to discourage you, but 
candor and honesty compel me to tell you' that you have now 
very little ground, if any at all, to hope for life; there may be not- 
wiihstanding a little, and I would strongly urge you to contmue 
to hope as long as life lasts." 

Thus by exertinp his skill to the utmost and by his incessant 
and unremitting vigilance, he keeps you along till the shades of 
evening return again. But in spite of every thing, your symp- 
toms are more alarming, and the return of tlie glooms of the night 
makes you worse^ O awful night! still worse than the one pre 



64 CONSOLATIONS 0JP 

©eding! ^our relations and friends, and neighbors have gathered 
around you, hut there is little or no hope reraaini ng in their breasts, 
or even in the breasts of your doctor or your kind nurse. Her 
faithfulness, and constancy, and energies seem to be even more 
unyielding than the doctor's, and she appears to be determined 
not to give you up. But all appears to be in vain. You grow 
worse and worse till mid-night, v^^hen your symptoms become 
more violent and alarming than ever. You now have every ap- 
pearance of hasty mortality. Your extremities become quite cold, 
and the paleness of death is in your countenance and on your 
lips, O now ! now 1 you f,el your " soul to be chased through 
every lane of life,'' and almost out of the body! It flutters to be 
off. And you say — ^'' O that 1 had wings like a dove ! for them 
would I fly away and be at rest." The doctor, aided by your in- 
vincible nurse, repeats with redoubled activity, what before he hid 
had done to restore the vital heat and prolong life. To the ut^er 
astonishment of every beholder he succeeds in pulling you out of 
the very jaws of death, and keeps you along till morning. At 
the dawn of day, to his own great surprise, and the unspeakable 
surprise of all others, he discovers symptoms higlily favorable. — 
He reports it to you immediately, but yoa are not at all sensible 
of it, and do not believe a word of it. Nevertheless it is true. — 
You have now passed the friorhtful, heartrending, soul trying cri- 
ffls, and the scale has decidedly turned in favor of life. In a few 
days you are willing to acknowledge that you are better, and in 
i\ie time get w^ell. 

My dear fellow sufferer, J now address you as one just come 
•ut of the furnace of affliction. ^' Behold thou art made whole: sin 
»o more, lest a worse thing come unto thee?" It is seriously to 
be hoped that your afflictions have been sanctified unto you, and 
have had a sanctifying eflect upon you.— That you can say from 
the heart, " it is good for me that I have been afflicted that I might 
learn thy statutes. Before I was afflic ed I went astray." That 
in passing through the scorchintj furnace all your dross has been 
©onsumed! and tl^at you "come forth as the gold seven times pu- 
rified." That in a certain sense you are another being, abetter 
being. — That you are much better acquainted with yourself and 
all your duties to God and man. That you are sensible that " the 
Lord bringeth down to the grave and bringeth up." That your 
heart is filled and is continunlly overflowing with gratitude to God, 
for his sparing and delivering mprcies, and that every sensibility of 
your soul and body, are awake to the interests and welfare of your' 
fellow men. In short, that fi)r the remaining time which may be 
fillowed you on earth, you will continually remember and perpetual- 
ly strive to fulfil " tha vow, which your soul in anguish made^'— 



THE AFFLrCTED. 65 

** to spend and be spent, for the glory of God and the good of 
man." And while you are spending and being spent, never forget 
for a moment, that as you did not die, you have still to die. 

But instead of all this; instead of your now being alive, and ae- 
live among men upon the earth, just when you came to the crisis, 
the scales might have turned in a different way, and you might hav€ 
died. In that case, you would have passed into the heavenly par- 
adise, and your place on earth would have known you no more 
forever, August 14th, 1828. 



FOR THE CHRONIC PATIENT. 



Thus far I have considered the case of a person overtaken arid 
attacked by some dreadful calamity or violent disease, manifes ly 
threatening life: the case of one brought yery low and looked up- 
on by all to be dangerously ill. 

I next proceed to consider the case of a person afflicted with 
some seated affliction or disease. Such are very numerous among 
mankind, and the disorders under which they labor are not much 
less various than the persons are numerous who endure them. 

As I have already observed, they are the persons who are more 
properly said to be afflicted. Their afflctions are not only of va. 
rious kinds, but of different degrees. The various local calami- 
ties to which the human frame is subject may be divided into two 
general classes. These which are without, or nearly without pain^ 
and those which are attended with more or less pain. There are 
many calamities settled upon the sons and daughters of affliction 
in which they suffer loss, but not p;iin. Perhaps pain may be 
endured at the lime of the commencement of the trouble, but 
none afterwards. In the loss of the feet, or legs, or hands, or 
arms, or eyes, or of the hearing, or in the j)ermanent distortion of 
a limb, or the fracture of a bone, there may be little or no bodily 
pain. The deficiency or helplessness causes much distress of 
mind without doubt, and such persons need the sympathies of 
their fellow creatures, and all the consolations they cmu obtain, 
but not so much as those mihappy suffevers whose bodies are dis- 
tressed and wasted, and weakened from day to day, by seated and 

6 



66 CONSOLATIONS OP 

grievous pains. Such (liseases, located either upon the external 
or internal parts, are culled by fhe Medical Faculty, chronic com- 
plaints, that is, complaints of long continuance. Of this kind 
are rheumatic p\ms, unhe-ded sores, white swellings, cancers, &c, 
seated on the ex erior; diseases of the stomach and bowels, the 
liver disease, diseases of the hefirt, asthma, dropsy, consumption 
of the lungs, &:c. seated in the chest and abdomen, together with 
the whole train of nervous disorders, viz : hyprochondriasis, hyste- 
ric and epileptic fits, the palsy, &c. seated in the head. These are 
chronic disorders which prevail more or less in the United States 
of America. Some of the most common and most distressing of 
these, are epileptic fits, the palsy, the liver disease, and consump- 
tion of the lungs. These two last are of all others, the most 
common. Of the two, *he liver disease is the more common, but 
the consumption of the lungs is more fatal than it. A person la» 
boring under any of these, but especially under any of the sever- 
est of them, is afflicted indeed, and certainly needs all the con* 
solation he can obtain. 

Jt now becomes my benevolent and sympathetic task to present 
to the view of such a one all the consoling considerations which 
may come within the range of my thoughts. The task will be ea- 
sier to me as T have been myself for five years just such a person. 

Suffer me then, my dear companion in sorrow and affliction, to 
draw near to you, and with all the awakened and hvely sympathies 
of one who has long felt and still feels the same with yourself, to 
address you most familiarly with respect to your afflicted condi- 
tion. You are a christian. But we are told by the scriptures, that 
the christian character is no guarantee against affliction, but rath< 
er the contrary. 

" For whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth eve« 
ry son whom he receiveth." "But if ye be without chastisement, 
whereof all are partakers, then are ye bastards, and not sons." 

Your affliction is of the chronic character, slow and lasting.--^ 
Such disorders sometimes commence with violent attacks, and in 
their progress, it is no uncommon thing for the patient to be vi- 
sited by such attacks, which manifestly threaten to take life. If 
you are visited with such an attack now, or should you be at any 
future time, all I can do for you is to refer you to what I have al- 
leady w^ritten in the former part of this woik. Thai is written 
specially for a patient seized with a dangerous periodical illness, 
There I have enumerated all the consolations which came to my 
mind, and which 1 thought calculated, safely and substantially to 
console the afflicted, in the immediate prospect of death. You 
\yill therefore turn to that and consider yourself the person there- 
in addressed. It is designed, as I also design what is to follow 



THE AFFLICT®D.^ 67 

to be applicable with equal propriety, to persons of either sex^ 
male or female. 

But 1 now proceed to view you and add ♦•ess you as one, not 
alarmed nor torn by a violent attack, but pursued by a steady dis- 
tressing disease. A disease which does not in a few days tear 
from you your flesh, rob you of your strength, nor daringly threat- 
en to give, in a hasty manner, what little iemT.ins of you, to the 
lonely grave and devouring worms. Not like the suJden flish 
which blasts ani consuin-^s the powdar in an instant, but like vhe 
genUe blaze that grada lly wastes away the lengthened taper. — 
Such is the disease which p tvc^ — -^ -^ - :^-'ri of your unb^ppy 
frame, perhaps upon youi \exy vU u:<, ii^ilOie its olow, silent pro- 
gress, the blooinuig roseate glow of health has fled from your 
sunken cheek. Paleness wich Jlits unwelcome and unlovely as- 
pect his taken its seat in your countenance. The brightness of 
your eya is obscured — sorrow sits visible on your brow — your voice 
is weik — literally your " hands hang down, and your knees are 
feeble." Every sinew, and muscle, and nerve, and fibre is out of 
tone and enervated. Your joints are loose, and your whole frame 
relaxed. You have lost, not only sprightliness of appearance, but 
activity of motion. And this is not all, you have lost in a great 
degree, the enjoyment of your food, are deprived of your wont- 
ed rest, and of refreshing, balmy sleep. Such is your unhappy 
condition. 

Nor is this all. You have not uiily lost all these thirigSj but 
have in I heir place a fixed and painful disease, which, (like the 
shadow of your body during the hours of sun shine) goes where 
you go, stops when you stop, and ^tays where you stay. You are 
not merely crossing in haste, a dark valley, but slowly descending 
its dismal length. Not merely passing a short night of sorrow and 
pain, but feebly dragging onwards through a long scene of sore 
affliction— a life of gloomy adversity. O my friend! how happy 
for us is it, that it is not all wo, absolute misery, and hopeless 
darkness; bad as it is, there are occasional relaxations from pain, 
there is now and then a little rest, there are sources of consolation^ 
there is hope! To these sources of consolation, permit me, now, 
deliberately to turn your attention. But let me tell you in the 
out-set not to let your expectations rise too high, nor suffer your- 
self to anticipate too much of that which is new and different 
from what I have already written. I have already said that I have 
therein, at least briefly touched upon all the great and most pro- 
mising sources of consolation to which I thought it proper and 
appropriate to turn the attention of a poor languishing mortal. — 
I have there spoken of all the help that his fellow beings can give 
him— of all he can dwve from medicine — from books — from 



68 CONSOLATIONS? OF 

thoughts on creation and providence — on immortality and etemb 
ty — on heaven and happiness, nnd of all the consolations which 
he may reasonably expect to flow into his disconsolate bosom, 
li*om created invisible beings and directly from God himself, the 
source of all consolation. 

I shall direct your thoughts to the same sources and in very 
much the same order. The difference lies not in the sources of 
consolation but in the nature of the afflictions of him whose trou- 
ble is strictly periodical and temporary, and of yoCirs whose dis- 
ease is located and continuous. 

The great sources of consolation for the afflicted, (and indeed 
for all men,) are the same. Consolations, it is true, may be re- 
ceived in different degrees, in different ways, and through differ- 
ent organs, but they all flow from the same great sources. It 
were vain then for me to talk of other sources or attempt to turn 
your mind to others, when there are none. 

My aim and object therefore, will be, to make all the use I 
can of the foregoing, with a steady reference to the peculiarities 
of your case. 

The first source of consolation and help, which we brought to 
view in the former case, was the physician. When a person be- 
comes disordered in almost any way, but particularly as you are, 
he or she, (as the case may be,) usudly endeavors, for a time, to 
get over it without the aid of a physician. But when he finds 
Ihat all he can do for himself is unavailing and w^ithout the desir- 
ed success, he next most naturally thinks of the physician and ap- 
phes to him. This you had better do, without delay, so soon as 
you find your own prescriptions to be fruitless. There are two rea- 
sons why patients not unfrequently suffer diseases to get the ad- 
vantfige of them. They persist in indulging the hope that nature 
will right herself and they will get over the difficulty; and they 
fear a heavy doctor^s bill. In this asr in all other matters, you 
should strive to avoid extremes. 

It exhibits' no small degree of weakness and folly for a person 
to run to the doctor with every slight injury or disorder. If the 
doctor should happen to be a man destitute of virtuous and sound 
principles, he will take advantage of such hasty and needless ap- 
plication, and perhaps the patient will not get over it any quicker 
with his aid than without it, and at the same time exhibit his weak- 
ness, and besides have the trouble and expense of paying his bill. 
The matter is still worse on the part of the doctor when he search- 
es out such slight cases, particularly among the more ignorant 
and uninformed part of the community, and makes them beheve 
they are worse than they really are, and that he can be of great 
service in curing the disease. All quacks, and many of the xegtx^ 



THE AFFLICTBD. 6^ 

!ar physicians are exceedingly self-conceited, forward and offi- 
cious, and therefore deserve to be shunned. 

But on the contrary of all this, you will be very unwise in de* 
laying to call to your aid medical skill, after you have evea 
moderate evidence that a local and chronic disease has taken its 
seat on any part of your frame. Because some patients are in- 
clined to be too hasty in applying to the physician, and many phy- 
sicians too forward with their prescriptions, you should not be too 
backward to make known your condition to the ablest and most 
candid doctor within your reach. You may conceive that it is 
only an inconsiderable disorder when the doctor might be able to 
discover that something truly serious had taken hold upon you. — 
Patients are of en deceived by diseases and are actually gone be- 
yond recovery before they make known their condition. Theu 
the cry of tne doctor is, " if you had come sooner I might have 
done something for you." And this compl unt is often just. — ► 
This however, is one of the many ways which the allwise Crea- 
tor takes to conceal from mortals the time of their death. Such 
is the lurking movements of disoses in their frame that they are 
ofien a prev to death before they are awive. And at o^her times 
there is every symptom and ap])earance of death and the patient 
recovers. Therefoie, the wisest course is to apply to the doctors. 
But you are not to expect them to have so acute a knowledge of 
the Sv^cret workings of the animal machine and of the symptoms 
of disease in it, as to mike no mistake. The contrary is the fact. 
DiHceming is the enhghtened eye of medic jI science m ly be, and 
actiially is, such are th;^ deep and dark workinnrs oftentimes, of the 
siiuplest diseases, t'lat it cannot see the whole extent of their 
al r rniug character. You will not be so simple then as to expect 
the doctor to know so much more than yourself, as to be able to 
tell you' certainly all about your disease. And, as he cannot 
know every thing concerning it, you must not expect him to do 
more than ho knows. They very often know more than they cmq 
d ). They can tell the pitient what is the matter with him, and 
how the disease will likely procee'l, but very often can do little or 
nothing for him. In some cases absolutely nothing. This is 
sometimes true with respect to cancers and internal schirrous af- 
fections, &.C. In chronic diseases generally, they can do little 
more than check their violence and mitigate the pains of the pa- 
tient. Otherwise there would [ye no chronic disorders . Because, 
if it were within the compass of their skill to cure them, they 
would do it, and such diseases would never gain the name of'chro- 
'flic complaints. [ do not mean that in no case atill they are able 
to cure them. In some instances they have succeeded in efFecl- 
ing a cure, and that iu a v *ry short time, but in general, if a cure 
be effected it rec^uires time. 6'^ 



70 CONSOLATIONS OF 

These remarks I design not to discourage you, but ♦o keep your 
anticipations from rising loo high, and thus to prevent disappoint- 
inent. It is better to bear a little caution in the beginning than to 
have the keen stings of disappointment added to your troubles^ 
which no doubt, you consider already numerous enough and great 
enough. Be encou; aged then, indulge a temperate and reasona- 
ble hope in your breast, and prudently endeavor to obtain all the 
human and earthly help you can. 

If there are many physicians in your reach be careful to choose 
that one who is the most skilful and has the most experience. — 
There is no class of men to whom age and experience are more 
useful than to physicians. 

After you have made your choice as wisely as you can, you are 
still not to expect too much. The doctor will likely not be aiile 
to cure you without first reducing and weakening your whole sys- 
tem. This is true with respect to most diseases. There is no 
disease located either on the exterior or in the interior but what 
soon affects the whole machine, it is generally thought, the most 
direct and effectual way to counteract such bad effects, and to 
cure the disease, even if it be located on tlie extremities, is by in- 
troducing medicines into the stomach. 

These medicines must necessarily be so powerful as to work a 
ehange upon the operations and state of the stomach and bowels, 
and particularly of the blood. Consequently your ordinary way 
of eating will be interrupted, and whether you have a good appe- 
tite or not you will be denied the privilege and enjoyment of grat- 
ifying it. The regular use of wholesome and nourishing food is 
the grand means by which you have strength. This being inter- 
rupted and suspended^ your strength will depart. The departure 
of this is a very unpleasant concomitant of disease, but it is not 
common for us poor mortals to gain any good without some sac- 
rifice. You must therefore consent to sacrifice your strength at 
least for a time, with the hope of gaining it again, with better 
health. With these views and prospects then, I would ac^^iseyou 
to follow the doctor^s prescriptions, punctually and faithfully as 
you can. If, after you have done so for a time, you should be-^ 
gin to conclude from your own views and feelings and sufferings* 
(whch is very apt to be the case) that there is something wrong in 
his prescriptions, your most prudent way is to tell him ininutely 
how you feel, and how you think the medicine his a wrong effect 
upon you, and ask him respectfully if he does not think he had 
better make some change in his prescriptions. If he is a man 
such as he ought to be, he will not be too easily swerved by your 
<5pinion, nor treat it with too much neglect and contempt. But if he 
determine that you must pursue them still on, without any change, 
^nd you submit, (difficult as it may be,) all the responsiibilitv 



^ill rest upon him, and if you do not get well lie will not be able to 
blam« you. if you refuse to take his medicine, you resume the 
business into youi own hands, and will have to bear the conse- 
quences, whether for the better or the worse. It being the doctor's 
special business to know all that man csin know about such mat- 
ters, it is more proper that you should yield to his judgment than 
follow your own. It is with this view that you employed him. — 
Tiiere are very few things which men have to do in which there is 
greater risk than in prescribing for the sick; yet it is the duty of 
some one to do it. The life of the patient may depend upon it. 
A little too much medicine or a dose of the wrong kind, or if it 
be given at an improper time, may be, and often is, the immediate 
cause of the death of the patient. 

Skilful and candid docors know this to be true. They know 
that the doctor and not the disease, in many cases, is the cause of 
the death of the patient. This they see when it is too late. For 
instance, a patient is very sick, the doctor examines him, his symp- 
toms are coniradictofy and confused ; the doctor with all his skill is 
at a loss, yet he muat act. Something must be done for the patient, 
and that without delay. All are at a loss, (ihe doctor himself is 
at a loss,) and perhaps he calls a council of doctors, and they too 
are at a loss; nevertheless they determine on a certain dose. — 
It is given — the patient dies, and from the ejflfects of the medi- 
cine before his death, the doctor sees plainly that the medicine 
was the cause. But this fact he will keep to himself and not 
communicate it to the surviving friends, unless they have saga- 
city enough to discover it. And if he should exercise much 
candor and acknowledge it, such acknowledgment would do 
them no good and would likely very unjustly injure his prac- 
tice. The case which I have supposed was a desperate one, but 
I have no doubt that in many which are not desperate, the thing 
which I say is true. And true too, not only in the hands of quacks, 
but of well informed, regular and skilful physicians. In some 
instances they err through carelessness and negligence, and are 
then greatly to blame. Their ignorance in such cases is a vinci- 
ble ignorance, to which is always attached a high degree of crimi- 
nality. But the cases to which I allude are those which are so dark 
and difficult that they cannot search them out. They are beyond 
the extent of their discernment. They are ignorant but their ig- 
norance is invincible, therefore they are not to blame. Such is our 
lovg of life, and such also our imperious duty to strive to the ut- 
most to preserve it, that the common sentiment of mankind is, "as 
long as life lasts there is hope.'' They think and say that some- 
thing must be attempted in the worst of cases. Not only so, but 
the m ixim and practice of doctors is, "never to give up a patinnt^ 
till he is dead," They feel it their duty therefore, to persist in do'- 



jng somethfng. If they are at a loss they judge as well afl thqr 
can and proceed. If Ihey mistake, and thereby the parient die% 
they cannot help it and are not to be blame<l. Who knows but he 
would have died any how? There are various ways and means by 
which men die, and you see th it even the doctors are one, and yet 
without blame. You have always been exposed to many of those 
ways of death. You constantly run the risk of falling into some 
one of them. Disease is a main one, and you had fallen into that. 
You are now in the hands of a doctor who is sone times another 
way, though not often. You must do with him as you have done 
and now do with all other things and causes which bring about 
death. You must feel as if it were possible for you to die by any 
of all the means, yea even by the doctor. Tnese remarks I have 
thought pioper to make to prepare your mind for those dreadful 
and greatly dreaded effects which medicine often has upon the pick. 
It is no uncommon thing to hear them say that the medicine pain- 
ed and distressed them more than the disease. And no doubt, in 
mbny cases, this is true. The medicine acts upon the same sys- 
tem that the disease does. It is designed to out-act or counteract 
the disease. Necessarily it must be the stronger of the two, oth- 
erwise it would not overcome, remove, and banish the diseMSf\ — 
And this according to the saying — "when a strong man armed 
keepeth his place, his goods are in peace: But when a stronger 
than he shall come upon him, ?nd overcom^^ him, he takeih from 
him all his armor wherein he trusted, and divideth his spoils." — 
Disease and medicine then, are to have a contest within you, and 
it may be a violent one. If so, in the heat of it, you will be very 
apt to think that instead of overcoming one another they wiU over- 
come you. 

This contest has commenced. Disease had taken hold upon 
you. Necessity drove you to attempt to break its hold, by medi- 
cine prescribed by the doctor. This you deliberately tliought to 
be your wisest andsafevsr coarse. And it would certainly be very 
unwise and cowardly to shrink from this course and stop and turn 
back, through feirof the effeets of mrd^cine, l>efore yen had giv- 
en it a fair and sufficient trial. Gird up your loins then, and go 
en with the courage of the determined and the resolute, till y )u 
are restored to health or it is fully and s^tisfictorily determined 
that the medicines and regimen prescribed by your doctor will 
not restore you. Accordingly you do so. You summon up all 
your fortitude and resolve to swallow his drops, or powders,or pills, 
as he may think best. 

To submit to his lancet, or lie quietly under his smirti ng and 
scorching blisters, or, if your case require it, to end'vre the keen 
^Ud deep peuetratioas of his surgical knife; or the iiarsh tearing of 



THE AFFLICTED. 78 

his amputating saw. If the amputation of a limb is the pain to 
which you are called to submit, you may soon recover from that or 
from a surgical opperation performed on the exterior. But if your 
affliction is seated within, particularly on any of the vital organs, 
you will not so likely be benefited by the endeavors of your physi- 
cian. 1 shall proceed to consider you and address you as one of 
the last mentioned unhappy sons of sorrow ; I now view you as hav- 
ing gone through a long, and irksome, and distressing course of 
medicine and medical regimen, but all in vain. You have pursu- 
ed it, and endured it, and groaned under it, tiil you have now de- 
termined that it is useless, and worse than useless to proceed any 
farther. Your physician acquiesces in the measure and you desist. 
But in the most friendly manner he gives you advice and directions 
how to manage yourself. He tells you now, as all well informed and 
liberal minded physicians will do, that your recovery, or comfort, or 
prolonging of life, depends chiefly upon your management of your- 
self. I view you now as out of the doctor'^s hands, but following 
his directions in a general way. And here, my friend, let me tell 
you to get all the information from him you can. You are now to 
be yonr own doctor, and you cannot be such to any purpose without 
a considerable experimental knowledge, and at least a little theore- 
tical. As you do not expect to practise medicine on any person but 
yourself, it will be your special business to study your own case. — 
In this study it will be your main aim to discover what will reliev^e 
or help you. I mean all that can be meant by this expression. Every 
thing relating to your medicine, — your diet — your exercise, — your 
rest, — clothing, and every single particular, or course, (which is in- 
nocent,) in w^hich you may engage or indulge. And, if yom cir- 
cumstances will permit, you ought freely to indulge in any pf all 
these, which will in the least contribute to your health and com- 
fort, only avoiding things criminal. 

Here it may not be improper for me to descend to particulars. 
With respect to your medicine, I would observe in addition to 
what I have already said, that it would be well for you to converse 
with physicians werever you meet with them, if they are not too re- 
f^ervcd ; and they will likely not be so if you tell them that it was 
not only the permission but the wMsh of your family physician. — 
The reason^ why they are not free to communicate any informa- 
tion they have, are because they do not like to medle with an- 
other's patient, and the idea of a fee invarably comes into their 
I head when they are approached by a sick pcson. Let them 
know that you have already had a regular doctor and he thinks 
best for you henceforth to be your own doctor. 

After such remarks as these they will gener Hy be free to com- 
municate. You will likely meet with some one among tbecfj 



1-4 



CGTISOLATIONg OP 



who Will enquire into th(.' course your physician took and find 
fault with it. At the same time he will be very apt to say that he 
ean cure you, and will wish you to become his patent. You must 
do as you may think best about this. It is not very likely he can, 
though it is possible. It is a very bad plan lo chancre physicians, 
especially if it be done hastily and frequently, from one to many. — 
Ii takes a considerable length of time for them to become minutely 
and acurately acquainted wih the pat ienl'fc peculiar constitution and 
his disease. So that changing from one to another will rather be tri- 
fling with yourself. You will find old women and quacks enough 
who will readily and boldly declare that they can cuie you. They 
and all the conceited and presumptuous ignorant will be very hasty 
to tell you what will cure you. They will eyjjreas no doubt what- 
ever. O! they will say " these or those herbs with which 1 am ac- 
quainted will certainly make you a well person in a very short time." 
Do not be flattered and deceived by their vain declarations. Be in- 
dependent, judge for yourself. It is not impossible however that 
even this class of persons may mention some things or herbs which 
may be of use to you. From thern therefore, as well as from the 
better informed, and also from books, you should pick up all the 
knowledge you can, which may have a bearing upon your case. 

You will no doubt hear of wonderous cures being performed by 
different medicines, some of them very simple, as one single herb. 
And you will even hear of these from some of our most eminent 
physicians, They will report the cases with all their circum- 
stances, telling how very far the patients were gone in chronie 
disorders, and how greatly but agreeably they were surprised to 
see the astonishing effects of the medicine which worked tlie med- 
ical miraelos No doubt many of these were real cures, but per- 
haps unaccountable, and not likely to take place with other patients 
who seem to be disordered in exactly the same way. There might 
have been some favorable but inscrutable circumstances in the pa- 
tients thus restored; or their recovery might have been by some 
special providence. You will likely see the newspr'pers abounding 
with their sovereign specifics, nostrums and catholicons, boldly 
and unreservedly claiming to be certain and infaflible remedies. 
Some for particular diseases, others for almost all. The former 
are bad enough, the latter are intolerable. It is very high pre- 
sumption for any man to say that his medicine is an infallible 
remedy even for one disease, but still higher for him to say that it 
is a catholicon, or universal remedy, sovereign and infalhble. Yet 
such presumption meets us on almost every page of our newspa- 
pers, in these days of avarice and speculation. There is good 
ground to belive that it is the love of money and fame, which 
,erQwds a large majority of these nostrums upon the publia^ I d.o 



THE APFLIC*r«D, t6 

not ^y that it is the case with all. No doubt some of them 
come trorn physicians who have thoroughly tried them, seen 
thier good effects, and who honestly brlieve they will be of service 
to the world. From the best motives therefore, they send them out. 
Their medicines may be good (if you can discover which they are;) 
but even they will be apt to cFaim an unwarrantable ciedit. I am 
not unwilling to admit that the medicines of the others may have 
aome good qualities. Do not understand me to say that they may 
be poisonous to such a degree that it is dangerous to take them.. 
These cautions like many of the foregoing I design to keep you 
fro>n being too sanguine in your hopes and expectations. And I 
feel it necessary to add still another. The nostrums of which I 
speak will all come supported by a large number of certificates.-— 
They will be very imposing and make you think that the medicine 
will certainly cure you. Be not too much elated with that fond 
hope. I do not advise you against using any of these medicines 
but only tell you to be careful and cautious. The safest will be 
those which have performed their cures within the compass of your 
observation. 

The reason why I have thought it necessary to make these re- 
marks is this — in almost every case there is something different 
from others, Yv:ur doctor examines you and is best able to dis- 
cover the peculiarities both of your constitution and your disease.. 
And if he has the knowledge of the materia medica which he 
ought to have, he can combine ingredients to s«iit your special 
case. Besides, for aught you know, these ingredients miy be the 
'same or nearly the same which the catholicon contains. 

I shall now close my observations concerning physicians and 
medicine, by giving you a general rule which 1 shall ere long ap- 
ply to your diet. The rule is, to watch most acutely and minutely 
your own feelings, and the effects that every particular nriedicine 
bis upon you. Thus you will discover what does you the most 
good, and may continue its use. 

The same thirgs might be said with respect to mineral springs, 
v;hich have been said concerning medicine. You will hear of them 
performing astonishing cures. They are a good thing in nature 
and very strikingly show the benevolence of God. They are and 
no doubt will continue to be among the greatest earthly sources 
of help and consolation for the afflicted. If your physician thinks 
Ipest and your circumstances will enable you, attend them, and 
temperately and prudently use them, as I have directed concern* 
ing your medicine. They generally do best after taking medi; 
,cine. With respect to your clothinir, your physician will direct, 
liYou should have prudence and cour.ge enough to ch;«r.go i% not 
k#fi]y vvi J^ tii^ changes of the weather, but to suit yoMi* own feel; 



*}[Q CONSOLATIONS OF 

ings. Your feelings will be very changeable and much more acute 
.than when you were in heilth. Every human system is a kind of 
thermometer, and is much mo^e sensible when diseased than in 
health. This ought to make you uncetsinoly vigihnt to watch 
your feelings in order to guard against all injurious exposures. 

1 come now to speak on the subject of y<.ur diet. This I shall 
tell yt)U (as 1 think all candid physici .ns will dy) is the most im- 
portant and powerful and promising thing which you can use 
to gain better heal-h. The well timed and skilful use of diet 
connected with proper, systematic and continued exercise, with 
seasonable rest, has often done more than all thmgs else. 

Important as the subject is, 1 have but lit ie to sjy on it. Much 
is said in medical books. To them and the medical faculty 
I refer you. After giving you a general, but comprehensive 
rule, which I found to be the best from my own experience and 
from the sentiments of physicians in general. The rule is to try 
all kinds of food and most accurately observe what agrees with you 
best, both in kind and quantity, and use it, if you can obtain it. 
The great matter with the chronic patient is to keep his bowels in 
tone and in motion. In almost every local disease these have a 
strong tendency either to inactivity or too much activity. 

Universal experience has decided that it is best, if possible, to 
keep up their tone and action by diet. It is more natural and 
less injurious than medicine. 

Though I did not design it, yet I cannot forbear saying a few 
more words on the subject of diet, the speculations about which 
at this day are almost innumerable — pardon rne if 1 here put in 
ono or two with a general conclusion. It will only be an en- 
largement of what I have already said. Mm was made to live 
on food both vegetable and animal. This appears in his naturt.1 
constitution and in the express words of Ood, allowing him to eat 
the flesh of other animals. His stom?xh is of a definite size, — - 
When in health it requires to be filled, and often filled; and to 
that kind of food, vegetable or animal, or both, to which it is most 
accustomed, the constitution becomes conformed. When ill health 
takes place, the stomach cannot be filled, and regularly filled, with- 
out bad consequences; but eating too much or too little in this 
condition is equally dangerous. The puient should make it his 
aim to get his stomach to receive ngr in the same kinds and quan- 
tities of food which it formerly did, moving on from step to step, 
guided by the most careful and strict observation and expeiience. 
To effect this, he should use any other kinds of food he can find. 
And my observation and experience h^ve thoroughly convinced 
me that the proverb "what's on*^ m •I'^s nn^Tv is t?nnvher man's poi- 
son,'' IS really true. Theiefoie, neither 1 nor any otiier man can 



THE AFFLICTS?). '^'^ 

give any better rule than the one given above, to use both in kind 
and quantiiy, whtitever agrees with yon best. 

Next to diet comes exercise. No less skill and prudence are 
required, than in the use of diet, and much more fortitude. In 
taking both, there should be neither too much nor too little, and 
each at its proper time. It is not good to take exercise immedi- 
ately after a meal, particularly dinner. After exercise comes rest^ 
which is next in importance. Yon should rest much oftener than 
when in health. In all these things your doctor will be your 
counsellor. 1 have swallowed an abundance of medicine, but 
you will permit me to close all I h:ive to say concerning the doc- 
tor, medicine and rigimen, by observing that ;l have received moie 
benefit from diet, exercise and res^ thin all earthly thmgs beside, 

I feel it necessary to warn you against discouri'gement and des- 
pair. Proceeding as you are at (his time, these will be peculiarly 
fatal to you. Remember you are now your own docAor. If yon 
give up the patient, he is gone. You will not forget tliat if 
the patient is neglected, or abused, or suffers, or dies, the patient 
is yourself. Discouragement then, being thus fatal, you should 
brace up and guard against it in every possible way that is jusfifia- 
ble. Let no little back-set, nor even great ones, cause you to de- 
spond to s(?ch a degree as to make you become less vigilanr in 
watching your svmptoms and in exerting yourself to the utmost^ 
to regain what you have lost. Not only so, but to advance on to 
a degree of comfortable, if not perfect health. It is unwise, and 
vain, and full of self deception, to hope and strive after things be- 
yond our reach, and altogether improbable if not imrjossihle. It 
is scarcely possible for a person who has labored a lencjth of time 
under a severe, or even moderate local disorder, partienlarly if it is 
seated within, up' n the vitals, to become entiiely well. Perhaps 
it will be presumption for you to expect restoratic»n to perfiect 
soundness and strenorth. But despf^rate as your case may be, ne- 
ver loos<^ siglit of improving it. Ever indulge and cherish the 
f( nd hope that you will i^et better and l^ettcr, till vou will again 
e!iiov, at least, a ctimfortalile degree of hr^:ll'h. Health! he/dth! 
universally acknowledged to be tfje greatest earthly blessing ! 

O heilih! health! lovely, blissfd, heaven-born healih! 
S:j, who is he can tell ihy matcides-^ worth? 
Not he with whom thou\st been a ccnslvtnt gu(;st; 
In all thx beauty bloorniniron his cheok, 
And ch^thing all his f ..uie with grace and strenofth, 
Tlujugl! tlio^i art his, to him thou jirt little !vn<»wn; 
F >v the^ In never sighed, nor pnyed, nor strove, 
i^ior paid a pace; e'en with hiai lliou wusl burii^ 

7" 



5*8 ^J*>NSOL^1TIONS XT(P 

And to him, free as vital air, hast been. 

Just like the ceaseless heaving of his lungs 

While he is lost in slumbers of the night. 

Nor thinks, nor even wills to breathe, yet breathes. 

If breath be lost, he dies, yet knovi^s it not; 

Its worth is vast and vital, yei unknown. 

Thus thou art precious, yei thy worth not known, 

Thy living excellence, he cannot tell. \Feb, 1, 1829| 

Who then can tell? can he who oft hath heard \ Sabbath ev^^. 

His fellows groan in healthless misery? 

Whose eyes have wept to see the feeble sick ? 

Whose tender hands have raised the sinking head, 

And long and faithful nursed a lingering friend, 

Till death removed his sad and mournful charge 

And closed his kind and sympathetic work? 

Can he pronounce thy rich, intrinsic worth, 

And lell the whole amount of what thou art? 

Not he — 'tis not himself —he sees and feels: 

But know, the feeling is but sympathy; 

However much he feels, he cannot feel. 

The loss, the cruel pain, are not his own. 

Nor can they be, however dear the friend, 

Brother, sister, husband, wife or child. 

Although he thinks he feels the keenest pang, 

•Yet, when the sufferer speaks, he tells him, no ■ 

And when he's sick himself, be finds it true. 

Say, say, who then, O health! beloved health! 

Can safely, truly speak, thy real worth? 

None else, but him, who deeply mourns thy loss; 

Whom thou hast left with all thy happy train. 

Good appetite, digestion good, good pulse, 

Good color, fresh and red, with sparkling ej^e, 

Elastic muscle too, with active limbs; 

Firm strength, freely to walk, or ride, or work ; 

And well toned nerves, with feelings good all o'ei;^, 

Prom feeling's centre down throughout the man ; 

A mind composed and strong to reason well; 

Both soul and body, able to receive 

Life's every joy, and feel it good to live. 

When thou with all thy glorious ttain art gon^ 

He is indeed forsaken and forlorn. 

Philosophers contend, wliether or not, 

In nature's vast domain, a void he found. 

Some say there is, some not, no vacuum. 

Be that just as it may — one thing we knoW; 



1 



I 



THE AFFLICTED. *?6 

As soon as thou and thine, forth from him corae^ 

Alas! another frightful train rush in. 

This awful train is head^^d by disease. 

The train consists of opposites to health's^ 

Bjd appetite, digestion bad, bad pulse, 

B id color, pale and white, with sickly eye, 

The muscles nonelastic now, with feeble limbs, }• 

No strength, freely to walk, or ride, or work ; 

And ill toned nerves, with feelings bad all o'er, 

From feeling's centre down throughout the man; 

A mind confused and weak to reason now, 

Body and soul unable to receive 

Life's any joy, and feel it hard to live. 

Sweet peace and comfort far away have fled. 

Life's dear enjoyments too, have winged their flight; 

Indeed he's sadly lost life's better half. 

He suffers, groans and pines, but does not live, 

"J'he man's whole being is disturbed, distressed* 

''Tis thus he learns, and in this only way 

What health is worth; to him the secret's known. 

Ask him; his tongue can speak without mistake. 

Nor is he likely to exaggerate; 

Indeed, that is almost impossible; 

He'll price it high, but not above its worthy 

Unless he goes beyond what life is worth. 

Ye blooming daughters! and ye sons of health! 

In gentle silence lend a listening ear. 

In plaintive strains he'll tell you what he's lost,* 

Be kind, O treat him not with harsh neglect! 

His broken heart is tender and sincere, 

Nought else but truth can from his lips escape. 

In patience listen to his tale of wo, 

That you may sympathise and profit too. 

With all his heart he'll urge you to preserve 

With anxious care and ceaseless vigilance, 

Indulgent heav'n's high gift to you, good healtb^. 

When round his pale emaciated frame 

You chance to stand, and he observes you there, 

Lifts up his drooping head with grief weighed dowy^ 

Turns round, and opening wide his sunken eye«j 

Beholds, with wishful, longing, steadfast gaze 

All lovely, charming health, in full array, 

Drsplayed, upon yonr cheerful, s-niling cheeks* 

Then look, attend and learn, this is the time? 

His eyes and every feature of his f^o 



80 OQNSOLATIONS af 

The feelings of his grief-worn soul express; 
His sorrows burst, and loud his tongue exclai :h^. 
O friends! O friends! Alas, ah wretched me! 
Time was, and truly happy was the time, 
When in the flowing fountain of my life 
Good health its proper, central place retained, 
And thence diffused its genial happy self 
Throughout the long and circling streams of life", 
And as it moved along those little streams, 
Most freely gave, salubrity and strength 
To every fibre of my wondrous frame. 
To blood, and flesh, and hones, from head to footj 
And filled my soul with pleasure and delight; 
Dear friends! this is the good that I have lost. 

My dear afflicted friend, I have thus attempted to give you, ir* 
poetry, some faint description of what good health is. No doubt 
you can much better conceive and realize what it is, tlian 1 can 
describe it. You feel it to be, as I have said, the greatest earthly 
blessing. Though you are deprived of it to a considerable de- 
gree^ it may not be totally and finally gone from you. You are 
not to suffer yourself to think so. 

It is the great good, the chief temporal good. The more valu- 
able a thing is, the greater should be our exertions to obtain it, if 
it is obtainable even in part, it is against discouragement, that 
lam endeavoring to caution you, and stimulate you. Our frame 
is truly wonderful. The more minutely and accurately it is ex- 
amined by the penetrating eye of science, the more deeply are we 
impressed with the force of the inspired exclamation — "I am fear- 
fully and wonderfully made." And there is perhaps nothing more 
wonderful about our frame than that operation by which a remov- 
ed part is restored and an unsound part becomes sound. It is tru- 
ly astonishing to see how completely, large and dreadful wounds 
have healed. And instances are not rare of patients recovering 
from very low stages of consumption and other alarming chronic 
disorders. I exhort you therefore, most earnestly to keep good 
courage. When you feel like falling into despair, set your mind 
to thinking how m.uch better you are at this time than you have 
been at some former time. And if you are not better perhnps you 
are no vi^orse, and if no worse, you may conclude that you will 
get along as well as you have done. If when you were this bad 
before, you were not discouraged, try to have as good courage now 
as you then had. And even if you are worse than you ever were, 
donH forget that you have always hitherto got better afrer bad spells^ 
jsjid you may even after this. You have never yet died, but per: 



k 



THE AFFLICTED* SI. 

"feaps you thought that some of your former ill turns or back-sets 
would take you otf. It seems they did not; and if you think this 
will, you m ;y be mistaken. Man can both endure much and en- 
dure long. Thus by comparing yourself with yourself at different 
periods, you may be instructed, consoled and encouraged. 

This leads me to another general source of consolation. I 
mean ihe employment of compjring yourself with others who are 
aiilicted. To this your mind will be naturally drawn out. Sftch 
is the nature of your disease, being of the slow gradual kind, that 
you may deliberately mdalge in this exercise is frequently and to 
as great extent as you please. Doubtless there are many sons a-nd 
daughters of affl ction around you, and many of them diseased 
as you are, and you have often seen such in past life. To these 
you will do well to turn your though s. It is one of the most 
profuising souices to which you can look. It is very well calcu- 
lated to support your courage and brighten your hopes. You will 
be able to engage in it altogether more leisurely and more exten- 
sively than the patient described in the form'^^r part of this work, 
who was seized by a periodical and violent illness. You are not 
like him confined io your bed nor to your room. And you have 
strength, at least at times, to go out and see your fallow men and 
occasionally mingle in the busy crowd. As you pass along, be 
careful to look at their countenances, and if you are not, truly, 
very bad, you will see many as pale as yourself. Very likely if 
you look attentively you will see more of these that are paler than 
of tiiose that have a fresher and more healthful color. When you 
see then, never forget to observe how they move along — what kind 
of a countenance they exhibit — whether they appear cheerful or 
ttot. When you have opportunity fall into conversation with them, 
anifl listen to the accouiit they may give of their case. Take spe- 
cial notice of the description which they will give of their syrnp-- 
toms and their sufferings, especially every thing that seems to be 
worse than yours. Yours \\'\\\ indeed be an unheard of case if 
you should not meet with many worse th:in yourself. Whenever 
you do, there will then be an object presented to your view calcu- 
lated to make you draw a conclusion in your own favor. Do not 
fitil to get them to say during your conversation, in what mannec 
they move on, what things or circumstances they seize hold of to 
stimulate and encourage them, and to enable them to bear up un- 
der the pressure of their afflictions. Perhaps they m'ly mention 
some things that you have not thought of. If they do, carefully 
treasure them up in your mind, that you may bring them to yout 
aid in times of still sorer trials, if they await you. 

[n your excursions out f om hotne, there will 1)6 no impropriety 
in your visiting all classes of p<^M'sons that are afflictedj tfae \iqrj 



t^% Ct)NSOLAT20N& 0¥ 

and ihe poor, the virtuous and the vicious. F'ronr) each of thesfer 
yen may gather items of information and circumstances for conso- 
iaiion. When you are in the presence of an afflicted rich man, 
you will have -jn opportunity of seeing lo what extent riches will 
go in aiding the afliicted. if he be vinuous and patient, his rich- 
es vvtil be of great service to him. If he know hew to keep the m 
.in their place, 'hey will have a very appropriate place duiing the 
days of his affliction. But if the contary of ah this he the Htct, 
jf they be his idol, you will see that they are a god that can aid 
but little m the hour of trouble. If when you visii him you find 
that he has been, and is now, trusting in this god, you will likely 
find him also very peevish and fretful, scolding his servants, and 
complaining of all around him. While you are with him opea 
both your eyes and both yotir ears, that if possible you may dis- 
cover something about him, either good or bad, from which you 
may take occasion to congratulate and console yourself. But 
you will be much more apt to be benefitted when you visit the 
poor man in affliction. You will be much more likely to find pie- 
ty and patience, and a disposition to have a favorable view of ali 
the dealings of Providence over him. He will be deeply affected 
with his entire dependence on God, and will be stongly inclined to 
consider all things woiking together for his own good. Wheia 
you are in his ill-furnished cabin or hut, and see the nakedness of 
the place and the pinching hand of poverty upon him, mark well 
the appearance of his countenance, and catch every word that 
iiops from his pahd humble lips. The poorer he is and the more 
yesigned and contented he seems, the more you will be profited by 
|our visit. It would by no means be amiss for you to seek out 
the verV poorest, whom affliction has made still poorer, and make 
it your special business to go and see how much worse their case 
]s than yours. Should you do this with a proper motive and spi^ 
tit, the contrast which you will behold will be of very great ser- 
vice to enable you to bear up and keep good heart. It will not be 
any consolation to you that they are worse than you, but your con- 
gelation will be, that bad as you are, you are not as bad as they. — 
And this more specially when you visit the vicious in affliction^ 
whose afflictions have perhaps been brought on by their vices — 
heir crimes and wickedness. In their presence you will be in the 
presence of the most wretched object on earth, and your thankful- 
oess to God for keeping you back from open vices and crimes will 
be very much excited. 

When it falls to your lot to be with the virtuous who are afflicU 
ed, whose tongue, like your own, '* speaks the language of Ca- 
H^an,'' whose heart is warm with love, strong with f lith and an- 
^3K)red by that hope which is the anchor of the soul both sure and 



^^i 



THE AFFLICTi:i^. &li 



lileadiasi, you may hear things, see sights, and learn lessons which 
it is possible, will be of sig ai advantage; to you. In every case 
in which you have conferefice with the afBicled, do not merely 
compare yourself with them, but listen to the accounts which 
they or any of them may give of those whom they may have seen 
either in as bad or worse condition than either you or themselves. If 
they tell of some who were manifesJy worse, but got better, for- 
gel not to take encourageni' nt ; k t a more lively hope burn in 
your breast, that you too will ^et better. 

The doctors will be able to bring to your view a multitude of 
•cases when you converse with them. In short, almost all persojis 
but especially the ignorant, will be very much inclined to commu- 
nicate to you any information of the kind. Humanity in the 
breast of men must be extinguished in a very considerable degree^ 
if they have no feeling for the afflicted. They will feel for you 
when you meet with them, and it will be their hearts desire to tell 
you something that will do you good. Therefore be patient to 
listen to the stories even of the loquacious ignorant, yes, and be 
thankful to hear them. It will scarcely be possible for them to 
talk a great deal without saying something either of themselves or 
others which you can turn to your own advantage in some way. 
It will at least furnish matter to employ your mind, and thus turn 
your attention off from your own woes, which you should even en* 
deavor to do, and not let your mind brood over them. 

Your intercourse may possibly be more extended, than the cir-* 
cle of your immediate neighborhood. Nothing is more commoat 
in chronic cases than for physicians to advise the patient to take a 
journey. Should you receive such advice and be able to do it, a 
great variety of scenes and of characters will fall under your no- 
tice. As you pass alon^ the road, you will likely meet with the 
sons and daughters of affliction in all places. You will hear of 
others, and thus will have brought to the view of your mind a vast 
multitude with whom you may compare yourself When you see 
those worse than yourself, do not forget to be thankful that you 
are not as bad as they. You may say to yourself — ^pooi creatures! 
poor fellows! I am not as bad as you are, and hope 1 never shall 
be, if it please God; and may the day come, when you will be as 
well as I am, and even better." When you see or hear of these 
wlio h ive been as bad and got better, I have already told you the 
Conclusion to draw. Be more careful to find out cases of these 
wliosecircumst;»nces have brightened, than of those round whora 
the clouds of adversity have thickened. That thus you may f tn 
the faint and lan£ruishin£r flame of hope in yourown breast, strrnirt li- 
on your conrnjre, elevate and enliven your spirits, overcome your 
disease, and eventually stand forth a person of hualth and strengtb^^ 



§4 m^mLATioyB <9F 

Whether you are able to go out or not, but espec'r^lly if yoa 
are not, books will be a great help to bring you to your vmw the 
trying conditions of others. Those vviiich contain the histories 
of past ages will be best adapted to serve you in this respect. Not 
many of them, if any, will descend to so mmu'e particulars, as 
to detail the exact circumstances of individuals who have groan- 
ed a number of years under distressing chronic diseases. Some 
few may, and they will chiefly be those which belong to the phy- 
sician's library. Some histories may give the cases of kings, and 
potentates, and nobles, and othe/ men of note. All histories, pro- 
perly so called, will rehearse to you those kinds of afflictions which 
are peculiar to war. They abound with the" horrentia Martis,^ 
the horrors of war. Indeed they are little else but war tales, tales 
of war and wo. They will bung to your viev*^ awful scenes of 
blood-shed and carnage. Let your mind dwell upon one of the 
scenes. When you read the history of a battle in w^hich many 
thousands were killed, let your thoughts move along slowly frona 
the beginning to the end of the dreadful sight; from the throAving 
of the first dart, or the firing of the first gun, not only to the bury- 
ing of the last man on the battle ground, but till the last wound- 
ed man arrives again at his own home. After this scene shall have 
arisen to your view in all the frightfulness of its unspeakable hor- 
rors — after you shall have contempLited it at length, stood and 
viewed thousands and ten thousands dying, and seen hundreds up- 
on h.mdreds wounded, and mangled, and felt your heart torn with 
the doleful groans of the wounded and the dying — after you shall 
ave followed the wounded and the sick into their miserable hos- 
pitals, and seen their rough nursing, in the hands of rude and har- 
dy fellow^ soldiers, w'ho are much better taught to handle the weap- 
ons of war, and furiously to take the lives of men, than neatly 
and properly to prepare suitable and delicate food for the sick, 
and tenderly raise the sinking head — after \ou shall have viewed 
them in this deplorable condition, unattended by a loving sister, 
Brother or wife, receiving not one kind act or enlivening smile from 
a dear and beloved female, and not only being destitute of deli^ 
ftate food suitable fjr the sick, but of all kinds of food, so as to 
he starving withal — after you shall have ihus viewed them suflfer- 
ing, groaning, languishing and sinking into the cold arms of death, 
then pause and reflect how much more you are fiivored than they. 
In this comparison you cannot fail to have a conclusion in your 
©wn favor. May 18th, 1829. 

It is to books that I am directing your attention for consolation, 
particularly to f nish yon with examples of affliction. The Bi^ 
•W« is decidedly and uncjuestionably the best book that man has to 



THE AFFLICTEIX. S& 

lead, and even on this subject it is the best. It abonnds with his=* 
tories of the afflicted, and gives many cases of the pious afflict ed^ 
and tells us how they bore it. In addition to this it lirings to view 
the most effectual relief for them. It brings to view the Great 
God, their Creator, undertaking on their behalf, connsehng them 
how to view and how to bear their afflictions, and in a multitude 
of instances, presents to our minds the Divme Saviour kindly <^x- 
erting his godlike power to deliver and restore them. He healed 
all manner of diseases. 

To this book then, to the Bible, \ would mvai seriously and most 
warmly direct your attention. 1 do not forget that your case is 
different from that of the person described in the beginning of my 
book. You have leisure deliberately to give your mind to the 
leading of the scriptures and to meditation, not only on the cases 
of afflicted persons mentioned by them, but on what they sr;y for 
the afflicted. You mny meditate at any length on the case of Joh^ 
and with greater care and exactness, compare your condition with 
his. In like manner with all others mentioned in the old and nev;" 
Testaments. 

Since the fall of man, the world has always been an afflicted 
world. All kinds of afflictions have prevailed, both periodical 
and chronic. In the diys of the Saviour's tabernacling on earth 
it was so. His grand errand into the world was to save sinners — ' 
to save the souls of men. But he appeared to be equally devoted 
to saving their bodies. "Be opened the eyes of the blind, unstop^ 
ped the ears of the deaf, the lame man leaped as a hart and the 
tongue of the dumb did sing. Great multitudes came unto him^ 
having with them those that were lame, blind, dum.b, maimed, 
and many others, and he healed them." "He went about all their 
cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, and preaching 
the gospel of the kingdom, and healing all manner of sickness 
and all manner of diseases among the people.'' 

Diseases of short continuance and those of long duration.-— 
From burning fevers and fatnl leprosies which rage but for a few 
days, to issues of blood of twelve years standing, and infirmities 
which bowed down the poor sufferers for eigfiteen years — not these 
only, but long standing dropsies, p;ilsies, withered hands, luna- 
cies [or epileptic fits,] and all manner of chronic diseases, such 
as yours. But perhaps you ask me how it is possible for you to 
derive consolation from the fact that the Saviour did in the days 
of his flesh, heal all these kinds of diseases and restore those thnt 
wore hold by them to health and comfort, seeing he does not do 
it now? 1 answer, these miraculous cures w(^re not performed mere- 
ly for the benefit of those on whom they were performed, but for 
(he advantage of all those wiio should believe tiwt the Saviour 



St> OONSOLATIONS OP 

possessed power to work them, and that he actually did, without 
deception, work them as is recorded in the scriptures. 

He healed and restored the bodies of men, to prove that he could 
heal and restor^^ their souls. Men in this world are better ac- 
quainted with their bodies than with their spirits. Therefore the 
Saviour wrought specially upon their bodies to show his power and 
willingness to deliver and save both their souls and bodies, and 
this not only in a temporal but eternal point of view. Tlis g^eat 
object was to save the souls of men, their better parts, but not to 
the total neglect of their bodies. No, as f have shown above, he 
had compassson upon their bodies also, even in this world. And 
he fully published his determination that they should not be lost, 
or wanting in the world to come. But even the "vile bodies of 
the Saints here, should there be fashioned like unto his glorious 
body." 

The consolation which I expect you to take from the fact of 
the Saviour's great kindness to the afflicted in his day, is of this na- 
ture. It is by your taking this broad, extensive view of the sub- 
ject, and your taking this view as a christain, a firm believer in 
the Saviour and in his determinations and promises. I do not 
mean to encourage you to expect that he will in any such miracu- 
lous v/ay interpose for you. I expect you to receive consolation 
from this source through faith and hope, in the way that no per« 
son can obtian consolation but upon christain principles. Though 
none others can, yet the christain can. And not only consolatioa 
but great consolation. Therefore, by letting your mind dwell up- 
on the multitude of instances in which the Saviour delivered the 
afflicted, and recollecting that he refused to heal no one who came 
unto him, or was brought unto him on beds or otherwise, or whose 
friends came to him beseeching him to heal them; and also bear- 
ing in mind that he did it even at a distance, merely by speaking 
a word; and no less viewing and believing that he will without fail 
fulfil his precious promise to all his afflicted followers, that their 
afflictions should come to an end, and be succeeded by perfect 
happiness, you may receive consolation, abundant, "everlasting 
consolation, and good hope through grace.'' Was he peculiarly 
the afflicted man's friend and restorer vi^hile on earth, whatever 
was the character of the afflicted person, virtuous or vicious, 
w^hether he believed he was the Saviour of the world or not ? Did 
he heal those who did not recognise him as the vSaviour of the 
world, the great friend of sinners, those who did not embrace and 
trnst in and love him as their own friend and Saviour? Did he 
heal ten lepers, and out of the ten was there only one who returned 
to express his gratitude and to glorify God? And has he no feel* 
ing for you his disciple, a christain^ though he is now exalteij 



TUB AFFLTiJT£t>. l^P 

:^ (at above all principality and power? The apostle (ells us that 
our hight priest has passed into the heavens." And what more, 
my friend? That *' we have not a high priest which cannot be 
touched with a feeling of our infirmities." He is touched with a 
feeling of your infirmities then, my dear afflicted friend. You 
may lo(3k away to him, with an earnest, believing steady look, not 
merely remembering what he once did for the poor sons and 
daughters of affliction, but viewing him as looking down upon you 
perpetually, touched with your infirmities, feehng your pains, and 
having a full determination to support you under them, and in due 
time, at the appointed time, when their end shall come, like the end 
of his came, to deliver you from them and take you up to himself. 

I have now, my friend, said what 1 have to say on the subject of 
comparing yourself with others, who are or have been afflicted. — 
The course which I pursued natuially led me on to those who la« 
bored under long standing disorders, in the days of our Saviour's 
sojourning on earth. And as naturally led me a stepfurtberto re- 
mind you, that he is stifl in his exalted state, the same tender and 
feeling, and almighty Saviour that he was then. But as I design 
to speak something more of this as I advance, I now proceed to 
turn your thoughts lo 

CREATION. 

It will be in your power to make much more use of creation 
than the person violently brought down. You can walk out, 
and the heavens and earth are before you. The earth from its 
most magnificent to its minutest points. The heavens, from the 
sun to the smallest star that twinkles. Upon these you may ^aze, 
and consider, and meditate. This too you may indulge in leisure- 
ly and at lengtlu You may suffer your thoughts to dwell upon 
the various and numerous vegetables that grow out of the earth, 
from the slender spire of grass, to the sturdy oak and lofly pine, 
And through this numerous multitude you will find something to 
amuse and entertain your mind. At another iime you may lei 
your thoughts wander and wind along with the purling and roar- 
ing water streams, small and great, till they lead you into the grefit 
deeps, the immense and trackless seas and oceans. There you may 
let them rove, over smooth seas, and on to other parts where storms 
roar and raise the waves to mountain height, tossing the ships aloft> 

" The men, astonished, mount the skies> 
And sink in gaping graves. 
Again they climb tiie watery hills, 

And plunge in deeps ;'gain; 
flach like a tottering dnuikard reels^ 

And finds his courage vain^ 



4PS < ONSOLATIONS OV 

Frighted to hear the tempest roar. 

They pnnt with fluttering breathy 
And, hopeless of the distant shore, 

Expect immediate death." 

Over this vast and almost boundless expanse, with its mildei 
ind mo^e awful scenes, you may let your mind range for hours to- 
gether. And as it ptisses along, from first to last, do not forget to 
think of the fishes that inhabit the waters, in their various species 
and kr ds, from the little minnows that twich and dart from hole 
to iiole in the smaller brooks, to the huge and ponderous whales, 
that in awful majesty and power, plough the deep, and spout whole 
cisterns of water on high. In these extensive excursions of 
thought tmd flights of mind, you may indulge to so great a lenofth, 
and go out so far from home, as almost to forget that your body is 
diseased. Any thing that will help you so much as this, will cer- 
tainly be, consolation. 

In musing upon creation you may next turn to the mineral 
kingdom, and think of the countless varieties of minerals that lie 
beneath the suifdce of the earth in all their tliousand curious 
siiapes and forms, from the rugged limestone and immense moun- 
tains of free stone, to the silver and platina and golden ores, and 
sparkling diamonds and gems, which dazzle the eyes of the be- 
holder. 

This you may do, even without being a philosopher, without 
being a severe and i iborious student, and to such an extent too as, 
in suine degree, to allure your mind and calm your sorrow^s. It is 
possible you may be a pljiUsopher. It is more common for 
students and pliilosophers to be chronic patients, to have their con- 
stitutions ruined and groan under lasting disease?, than any other 
class of men. This is the natural effect of confinement and in- 
tense study. Should you be s^ich a ch n"}cter, you mny pursue 
Willi greater fdciliiy and to more full satisfaction ihecouii^e I arji 
pointing out. And «)f all oihers, you are the person that ought to 
d > it. [t was in becoming a philosopher that you also became af- 
ii CKid. x4ithoug:i it may not be possi)>]e to apply your learning in 
the woy you designed, let it not be entirely los't, use it in the way I 
am lirecli ng. But if you are not a person of learning, I am very 
f a- from advisin.g you to become a stndeut in your o^^iicted and 
feeble condi ion. Nevertheless, w^itluut, bein? a profound scholar^ 
you any extend y^U' contemplations and m;Hiit nions nn creation 
to a rn'ich grediev exieM tlian I have y^:t hinted at. Let ilw whole 
ammal ptrt of ere:- on that cveepeih upon the ear<h p^ss in re- 
vi^^w l/To e your mind. iWie them in ascending gradation from 
thbsaiailest to the greatesi — from the lodst of crawling worms and 



THE AFFLICTED. 80 

flying insects to the greatest of beasts, and to birds of loftiest 
flight. Look at the tamer beasts and birds around you, the inno- 
cent lamb, the gentle cow, the obedient hor-e, the cackling and 
crowing fowls, the cooing dove, and all the chirping and whistling 
and singing feathered ones of the forest. Ttius extend your 
thoughts till you come up to the prowling tiger, the roaring lion, 
the huge elephant and the keen eyed high soaring eaglr. For 
hours at a time you may thus indulge and no doubt you will not 
indulge in vain. Be careful to make moril refl 'ctions aj? you pro- 
ceed, and if you ascend as 1 have advised fn^m tht' most insignifi- 
cant through all the species and kinds of animals till you arrive at 
the last, the greatest, tlie noblest of all, the lord of all others, that 
one will be man . Him you may compare with all other animals, as 
it respects all his powers and faculties of body and mind. And 
while you are thinking of man, if I mistake not, you will see that 
he is subject to more and worse and more fa=al diseases than any 
other animal. This will cause you to muliiply your moral refli c- 
tions, and amongst them this wjll be the most promirienl one, Ujat 
of altercated animals in this visible creation, man alone has olfen- 
d<id the great creator. Therefore justly, very justly, he stands 
foremost in misery, and because all other animals were made for 
man's use, they, in their measure, are alBicted to afflict him. 

Here, my dear disconsolate christian, I mist acknowledge tho 
train of thought has led me on to things not very consolatory. — 
Notwithstanding they are things about which you may meditate, 
and as you are a christian may turn to some good account. It is 
not my purpose to say much in this place upon moral cons^era- 
tions. Of Ihem more hereafter. 

1 am nov^ speakir.g of the naked creation as presented to the 
view of every beholder. It did not come into my plan to account 
for the existence of evil, nor answer the objections of caviling 
and captious minds. Perhaps all those who make such attempls 
could be better employed. My olrject is to console you in your 
afflictions, and nr>! to enter into deep and abstruse points which 
at this tim*? you are ill able to attend to. Therefore you need 
not expect me to engage in labored discussions on any of the many 
difficult questions v^^hichmay naturally arise out of my subject. — 
I by no means, however, forbid you to meditate upon them, if 
you feel able and disposed. On such as the one just mentioned, 
you may possibly me litate to advantage. Indeed in your contem- 
pl Oions «>n creation it is your special privilege and duty to draw 
such moral refections as may naturally suggest themselves, i 
say it is youJ duty to do it for yf>urs^lf and not mine to attempt to 
do it for yon, lest I siio'dJ levi y>n} out to greater lengths than 
you arc wiliiii-' or able to go. But 1 lepcat it, you should do it 

8 



>IU C©NSOLATIONS OP 

whenever and as much as ever you can. The afflicted pers^on of ali 
otlitrs may ^eusonably be expected to be a person of serious n.edi- 
iati n. His affl-ctinns shut him out frcm the ordinary way? and 
feelings of men, and he looks with a diftierent eye and with differ- 
enl feelings upon cell things around him. Thus you should do. — 
And as yuu contemplate creation you should strive to view your- 
self as you stand related not only to it in all its parts, but to the 
great Creator. And you should no less strive to discover some 
good design in all the parts of his vast and glorious 'vcorkmanship. 
You may have many and very entertaining and usefil thoughts a- 
bout the air in which you move, and which you breaihe. Philoso- 
phers make a multitude of c.jrious and useful experiments on it. — : 
They tell us the parts of which it is composed, :.nd explain to us 
why it is indispensably important to sustain life. It is so mdis- 
pensahle that it seems to be a part of our life, a part of us. You 
may be entertained in reflecting that it is invisible though all a- 
round you and even in you. That though you do not feel its 
weight it is exceedingly heavy — ond that it extends only about 
forty five miles above the surface of the earth, &:c. &c. 

Even more entertaining will be your contemplations of light. — r 
This exercise will require but little study. You have but to ojien 
your eyes and the beaming, brilliant, glorious sun of the firmament 
is before you. The grand displays of light you will behold, first 
in him, the great fountain of it, " the king of day," thence all a- 
round you on land and water, hill and dale, trees and plains; but 
more varigated and more glorious in the immense banks of clouds 
which at times will appear of mountain size, piled one upon anoth- 
er, and exhibit truly grand and attracting displays of light and 
colours. You will indeed be allured with the more systematic 
and still more grand displays of light and all the primary colours, 
^vhich the brilliant rain-bow, begirting the heavens, will exhibit, 
with such transcendant and glorious sublimity to your admiring 
gaze. 

The awful sublimi-ies of a thunderstorm you may both behold 
and hear, while it flashes and roars, and meditate upon when it is 
past. This may suddenly and powerfully arrest your thoughts 
and call them off from yourself and your disease. This abstrac- 
tion of your mind from yourself you may easily continue by let- 
ting your thoughts fall into a philosophical channel; reflecting 
that the agent which causes these sudden, and rapid, and vivid 
flishes of hght, and produces those roaring dreadful ]ieals of 
thunder which momentarily enlighten our atmosphere and terribly 
shake the earth, is to be found in all bc^dies around vou, and is call- 
ed the electric fluid. Further that this fluid can be collected and 
let off by man; so that even man can make thunder and lightning.^ 



THE AF^^LICTED. 91 

and not only so but can use it upon himself to great advantage in 
curing some diseases, yea, and it may be, even your own. This 
train of thoughts with the conclusion may console you. 

Af^ain, you rnay meditate upon the attraction of m?ignetism. — 
Thin\ how surprisingly the mignetised bars of steel will lif? up 
bars of iron, but will attract no other matter th-in iron. It is also 
surprising how this power or virtue, cui be increased orstre/ngth- 
enedbyuse. Its attraction and repulsion of itself under diiFer- 
eni circumstances, excite the wonder, and call into exercise the in- 
genuity of philosophers. Bui of all the appearanc^^s which it ex- 
hibits to the astonished and over matched examination of the 
learned, its polarity, or pointing to thepolrsof the erh, decided- 
ly stands highest and most useful. 'Tis the nrigne i j e- lie wi>ach 
guides the sea captain and the surveyor. For hours together you 
ini> think of the vast and trackless waters f-overed with s!iips go- 
intx in every direction and carrying on all kin^is of commerce wUh 
the most distant parts of the earth, f^nd all kepi vo ^h^ ir r^in^.'^ as 
well in the darkness of the niglit as in day !iirit by th polo seek- 
ing virtue of the wonderfnl mr^net. Af e: you have i')llowed 
this excellent, junequalled little pilot over the waters, in alldirec- 
TitHisnnu iinaer all circumsianTe^, von may next toiiow mm, in 
tho hands of the surveyor, from mountRin's top to mountain's top, 
and through all the extensive pkins setting up his land marks, for 
boundaries for m^n; laying off to each accordingly as he is able 
to buy, his plat, lot, plantation, or farm. 

When you close your mental excursion, you will be strongly in* 
duced to exclaim, how wonderous! how wonderous! and how use- 
ful too! There is only one more particular in creation to which I 
sliall direct your attention, and that is that great, extensive and un- 
accountable thing which Sir Isaac Newton named " the attraction 
of gravitation."*' He satisfactorily proved it to be the great chain 
which not only chains man and all other things to the earth, but in 
the hands of God holds the universe together. You may reflect 
then, that all bodies small and great, attract one another, draw oth- 
ers to themselves, the less the greater, and the greater the less, hut 
the greater always more powerfully than the less, so as to have a 
commanding power. You may consider yourself to be drawn by 
all bodies which you approach near enough to, and at the same 
time that they attract you, you attract them. 
^ This you will not be sensible of with respect to all the smaller 
bodies on the surface of the earth, but you will feel it very sensi- 
bly with respect to the whole earth and yourself. You will find 
yourself in all places and positions to be drawn to its centre. As 
you take your walks for exercise and the entertainment of your 
mind, you may meditate upon this subject. WJiile passing dowr 



0^ CONSOLATIO^fS 6F 

the liillyou will be forcibly hunied to thebottoili, and a? you go 
will lean back, tu resist the attraclion of graviUttion. The bottom 
of tlie liill being nearer the centre of tiie earth than the top, and 
that being (he point to wjjich you are drawn, yon will feel it very 
sensibly. And no less sensihly as you are ascending the opposite 
hill. If you observe you will find yourself, in your exertions to 
ascend leaning forward. I'liese are some paticulars in wiiich you 
may easily discover and feel theeriects of the attraction of gravi- 
tation, Tiiere are many others no less obvious. The flowing of the 
"Waters, the falling of trees, and of stones and other bodies thrown 
into the air. It is notjiincr but the attraction of the earth that causse 
them to return. Were it not for such attraction why would they 
not ily off \n the direction they are thrown? They would, if the 
attraction of the eaith did not cause them to fdl again, you may 
say that there is n^ t ling in the air to support tliem and therefore 
they fdl. Without the attraction of the earth there is as mucli to 
support them in one direction as another,' and even more, for the 
power that sent them would always propel tJiem on, if not resisted 
by some other influence, or stopped by some opposing body. You 
may then, with Sir Isaac Newion consider that the same power 
which c'lUises a slone to fall to the earth extends to ilie moon and 
attracts it, so that l)y this power the earth draws the moon along 
after it. And in like manner of all the planets in the solar sys- 
tem; the sun being the centreof this system, and more than a mil- 
lion times larger than our eartli, dml o^course vastly larger than all 
the planets with their moons which have yet been discovered. 

On some clear moon light evening then,' you may step out of 
your door, and by throwing up a sniatl stone and witnessing the 
effects of gravitation may start your rhonghts upon an almost end- 
less excursion. In imagination yon will pursue the stone in it^ 
flight. Thence like Newton, you will ascend to the moon, climb- 
ing up on this great chain of gravitation. During your stay 
there, you will see that the moon is indeed bound to the earth by 
this chain. 

You will find yourself two hundred and forty thousand miles 
distant from the earth, and that much nearer to the sun. After ^ 
having vie\ved her mountains and made what other discoveries 
you may be able to make, and taken an admiring back look upon 
the earth, you will pass on, making your way upon the some chain 
to the planet Mercury. When on him you will be fifty-eight mil- 
lion seven hundred and sixty thousand miles nearer the sun thau 
you were at the moon, and fifty-nine million from the earth. As 
he receives his light and heat from the sun, you will find about se- 
ven times as much light and heat as there is upon the earth. This 
will be a warm place for you, consequently you will make but a 






JTHE AFFLICTED. 9S 

ihort stay, hastily gather up, look around upon the wonders of 
the world, and tor a moment gaze upon the dazzling and overwhelm- 
ing splendors of the sun, as long as your earthly eyes can endure 
the sight; then away with rapid, returning flight, to the planet Ve- 
nus. When arrived on this planet you will have travelled ninely- 
one million miles, and will find yourself sixty-eight million from 
the sun. After liuving felt and breathed her atmosphere, and cast 
your eyes upon wh^t she; presents to view, and also looked around 
upon the other worlds, and seen liow they appear from her, you will 
pro -eed on beyond the orbit of the earth to the first superior pla- 
net Mnrs, looking round as you go and discovering how the earth 
appears from a distance. Here your journey will be lengthened to 
a tiiindred cuid sixty-eigtit million miles, and you will find your 
self a hundred and forty-five million from the sun. What will a 
litfle surprise you here, will be, that you will discovr.v this world 
to be three times less than the earth. Having noticed this with 
anv other phenomena wbich you may tarry to observe, you will 
next proceed on the planet Jupiter, viewing as you go, the Aste 
roids, Ceres, Pallis, Juno and Vesta. 

Here after attending to your reckoning, you will find that in 
going from Mars to Jupiter, you pissed over the space of three 
h'lndred and fif^^y million miles; far the largest stride you have 
yet. made, and rounding out your journey to five hundred and 
ei^h.een million miles, and placing you at a distance of four hun- 
dred and ninety four million from the sun. Youra.Jmiration will 
be greatly excited when you think of your distance from the sun 
and earth. VViien you look back upon the sun and see him twen- 
ty-eight tim'^s less than he appears from the earth. When you 
discover the world on which you are, to be one thousand times 
lafger than the e.jrth. Aiid while you g.:ze upon his belts aiid 
upon his moons, some of v^hich are larger than t!ie earth. Thie 
done, you will advance thence to the next world in order, which 
is Saturn. Tfiis stride you will find to be four hundred and three 
million miles, considerably greater than thelas^ and making your 
journey nine hundred and twenty one million. By observation 
and calc!jlati<m you will discover your distance from the sun to be 
nine hundred and seven million miles. The sun will appear to be 
only a ninetieth part as large as he does from the earth. The»^e- 
foie you will have much less snn li«f}it, but as Saturn has seven 
moons, you will have plenty of moon-light. After seeing that he 
is much less than Jupiter, being only about six hundred times :is 
large as the eirtli; and taking a satisfactory view of his ^/reit ring 
or ring?, which are about twenty-one thousand miles from him, you 
will pitt olT on your last excursion to that most distant world in 
our systeinj Herschel, On you»* passuge you may see a flaming co ^ 

8* 



i4 CONSOLATIONS OF 

met. When arrived on this reruotest out-post of the solar system. 
and afier summing up your whole journey, the amount of miles 
"wil be nineteen hundred and fourteen millicn, and your distance 
from the Sun nine een hundred million. This being the end of 
your journey, you will take a stand for a time and cast your eyes 
around, hackwaids and forwards, and let your thoughts pass en 
beyond the ex ent of your eye-sighr throughout the almost bcund- 
less unive se. Ail the way tO the sun, nineteen hundred million 
Bi'les, you Can see, and all die woilds yi u have p.issed come with- 
in I hat range. You stand and g.zeat the Sun the great cent.'e, 
and all those stupendous and m^ignificent worlds with their s'dtel- 
ites, comm i ded hy him and regularly wheeling their in. mer?se 
circles round his brilliant and m.^jesnc orb. By him held <Mnd 
wne led, wih his great and s^iong chain of attraction, on which 
you travelled; and prevented from liying in upon him by the cen- 
tnf *gal force. 

Upon the grand and magnificent movements and revolutions of 
this whole sysem of worlds, you will look with admiiing and in- 
tense gaze Till you aie salistied, and then excli.im, how gieat S 
how glorious ! ! is not this itself a great creation ! ! ! But this is 
only a very small part of the whole creation. You cas your eyes 
ironnd upon the fixed stars several thousmd of whi<-h you can see 
with your naked eye. To all these, with your eye, your thoughts 
pMss out, and not only to thovse but to the h^ ndred thousands al- 
ready discovered by the telescope, nor yet to these alone, but to 
the myriads existing in all probabihty though yet undiscovered. — > 
Ten have now become an asironomer, and wi!h other astronomers 
you come to the reasonable conclusion, that as all these stars shine 
■with their own li.ght they are suns and centres, each of a system 
like our solar system. Possessing all he advantages of the jour- 
ney you have taken and the stand which you hold, you let your 
thoughts linger for a moment upon the vastness and wonders of 
m^e system, or set of woilds; then on to another, and another, and 
another, and another, and on, and on, and on, and on, and further 
©n, further on, further on, further on, and still beyond, beyond, 
beyond, beyond, till your soul swells wi'h contemplations of ihe 
greatness an 1 vastness of the Universe, and your timughts break 
ont and pass beyond creation to the Great Creator. "An unde- 
Tout astronomer is mad.'^ But you are sober and devout. And 
at this solemn mornen^ most profoundly so. You fall down witti 
reverence and awe, and adoration, felt by you, but inexpressible 
to others, and exclaim — "Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all thit 
is within me Hess his holy name! Bless the Lord, O my soul. — 
O Lord my Go J, thou art very great; thou ar^ clothed with honor- 
and majesty .^^ "Thin« O Lord is the greatness, and Ih© poweii. 



and the glory, anrl the victory, and the m; jesty thine is the 

kingdom, O Lord, and ihou art exaUed :!S head aL(;ve A//." 

How grea: ! how great ! must He be, siiy yoa — wiio is greater 
than all these couiitkss worlds!! Who mide ihem with all their 
inhabitants, and upholds them, and guides ihem, ajid >akesspeci il 
care even of their minutest pars. Whose Providence is over .lii 
thirigs. Yoa think, meditate, admire and adore, til] yoo not only 
forget that your body is diseased, Ijut almost t'orget that you hfi^e 
a hniy. This is consol ti^ n. You pnuse, c. 11 in youE thongHsSj 
g iiher up, look homewards, s v, Herschel farewell, tnke y<iuri;i^ht 
and land in your own door-yard, and enier : gain your humble 
earthly cottage, consoled, and witii impioved heabh. You restj. 
and -ep'tt and prolong your rest, till you feel di:p >sed and desi- 
rous to think and med'tate aguiir. So very enterlr in'r^g was the 
course which last y{?u pursued that you most naturally f^Jl into 
the s^iMie again and proceed on from where you stopped. 

Y-m (lad followed creation from her minutest and more fuuiliar 
parts, which su'round your humble dwelling, hroi^gh her numer- 
ous and v;irious departments, up, with extensive sirides, to her 
most magnificent and suipendoos, and had even gone beyond cre- 
ation to the Great Creator Him you had cent< rnpl iled . nd ador- 
ed, rid for a moment thojght of his Providence. Elevr red \o the 
exabed stand which you held, and wrought up to the liigli pr-ch 
of mental contemplation to which you were, you could not f^r- 
boju* being thus led on. You glanced a hasty, rapid, wi(le-r?ng- 
ing thought in pursuit of that univers.l providence of his, which 
takes s[)ecial care of all those huge and distant worlds thai yoa 
Ii:*d in contemplation with all the things and beings which belong 
to them. 

> A second thought now readily convinces you that it m.ust be 
much more difficult and less profitable, especially to a person in 
your condition, to attempt to pursue and witness the operations of 
the providence of God, in any other thn a general vvpy, on any of 
those worlds which are at a distance from this on which is y« nr 
present home. Therefore, yi^u conclude to think and meditate of 
the acts of providence, as exercised in controlling and managing 
the world on which you dwell. 

PROVIDENCE. 

To you there is nothing in the least strano^e or astonishing 
that die Creator should superintend and control his creation. 
That he should foresee, oversee, and overrule e^ery thing be 
has made, small and great, animate and inanimate, corporeal 
and spiritual. This idea and this conclusion are inseparable 



d& vossoLxrioss op 

frm the idea that there is a Creatv>r;aiid of hoth yon are abun- 
diuitij satisfied. Ci'eaiiun''s voice loudly declares the exist- 
eii'e of a Creator and uf his providence, and revelation speuks 
th J same traihs so clearly and repeLite<^^]y as to leave the matter 
WithoLit a douDt. H .^ ing heard and fully and entirely credit- 
60 iheir voices, you proceed^ to nieditiite, fur your entertainment 
a»id improvement, on that aMtiraole and s:>vereiga, ;.nj often 
ni' fettirions Provicl^^n*: e which supeiiaiendsand truides ihedesti- 
nirri of yourself and all ihe things anil beings aiound you. 

If our course \vii« Le easy. It will bv most niuinal for you 
to follo^v creation, as }on liave jufJt don»", from less to great- 
er delayinij as \ou advance to me<iiiate up >n the cnaol 
ol Providence over each department or grade. As the scrip- 
turHSr have selected and meniioned ihe hi4ir» of your head a- 
mv>ug minute and unfeeling things, but not too niinute to he 
overlooked bv Pr)viden^:e, you ma\ bey in wiih ihem, nvnjt of 
feeling Things, wirh ihe li ue filing sparn vvs. Oi^ yoi> nny 
begin wuii the parii. hs A dnst biown by the \vinii>5 or the 
giTiins ot saiiO Wushed iy th:^ waters, and adviince thence to 
th-i ^reaiesi [hings a id greatest anima:s. This you will pro- 
ceeii fr )in atoms t«/ empires, and vvirnesj? the guiding of Pi vi- 
deace over each. JN • aium moves, no 1 reeze hiviw>, no germ 
buds, -and not a dr<«p oi rain ic^lN, wi hout the permissit/n and 
pxirpose ot Providence. Vcrv giA;a;ly mwy you en, eitaiu your- 
self m closeiy ooserxing his wise desigjis in all ihese. Enter- 
taining however as these may i e, they are things inanimate, 
and thereicre his management of rhem cannot ue so attracting 
as that of things animate, though irrational. These are the 
brute creation, including fishes, birds and creeping things. 
You will amuse yourself by refiecling that Provirienre orders 
their different sizes, mrips, comeliness or uncomeaness; meas- 
ures out slrengih to each, and gives exactly that length of life 
to every one which will suit his purposes best. But you wiii 
dw^ell longer in thinking oC the various and very numerous 
ways and means by which he sustains their life. Of the fishes, 
with great leviathan at ih^'ir head, it is said- *'These wait ail 
upon ihee;that th>u mayest give them their meat in due sc a- 
scn." What is their meat? 'I hey are meat for one-anotner. 
O le species pre\s upon another, and no doubt often upon the 
s nne. And of creeping things it is said — ** He givevh the hcost 
his food." And of those that fly, "Behold the fowls of the air: 
for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; 
yet your Heavenly Father feedeth them." 

These too, both r.east and f -wl, prey, the one upon the other| 
Uiose of them which are ferocious aud carniverous. The 



tamer sf^rt he supplies in milder ways, hsit into all h^. '^openeiR 
his iiaad and they are lilled with go-jd.*" Long miiv you med- 
itate upon this extensive and eiitertainincr view ot* Providence. 
But that part of his care which is of all others the most im* 
portaiit, interesting and attracting, is his management of man. 
He IS animate, rational, fueling and accountable. You are 
meditating upon the providence of God over this world. Man 
is the greatest anxl most ititeiesting ohject attached to it. That 
too, which will maivc this exercise so decidedly su()erior to the 
foregoing, and incomparably more engagino is, that you are 
one of the race yourself, and come under the management of 
the same Providence with all otheis. In this exercise you are 
not called o study the nature and faculties of man, but simply 
to view him as controlled by Providence, You look at him 
then, as he comes into the world, a Iceble animal. As his 
strength increases and his faculties begin to develope, he l>e- 
gins to lay plans tor life. Thcsi.; are generally very extrava- 
gant, but extravagant as they are, many of them are permiiied 
to accomplish them, yet tar the larger part fall through. When 
you look around and see the great undertakings of those who 
arc called enterprising men; undertakings recpiiring grertt 
strength of mind, to plan and manage, and a length of time and 
much labor; and untiring and unyielding perseverance; and 
finally see the whole accomplished; you are astonished at what 
mm can do Abundance of wealth accumulated — great buil- 
dings completed — cities built, and sometimes even where the 
waters fl >wed — canals done and in use — long voyages prcsper- 
ously ended, and many larg;e volumes written by one man and 
he yet alive; these things, no doubt, excite your surprise. And 
your surprise, on the other hand, is no less, to see those who are 
the equals in age and abilities ot those who are successful, 
either rendered helpless by disease or suddenly cut down in 
the midst of their career by death. So great is the uncertainty 
of all things here below, that you are disappointed in either 
case, the success or the failure of men. Long may you enter- 
tain yourself by meditating upon the various providential dis- 
tributions of intellectual powers, from the idiot up to the man 
of giant mental strength. Of the various distributions of pro- 
perty — of influence and of power. — Oi* knowledge in all its 
ditferent degrees, among the nations, from the most ignorant 
idolaters to the most enlightened christians. But perhaps you 
may gain as much entertainment by meditating upon the rise 
and fall of individuals, of fimilies, of states and of emf)ires, as 
in any other way . You may see an individual exceedingly 
j)romiaent, glorying and exulting in the eunshme of prosperity 



98 CONSOLATlOl^S OF 

and renown, but (as every thing has its day and its death.) you 
may see hiin suddenly brought down, and noiseless silence suc- 
ceed all his activity bustle and stir. You will be just as apt 
to see faniiiies which have stood long and flourished greatly, 
broken u|> and scattered abroid by the death of the father, and 
that too, often in the prime of life You may do much at 
wearing off the tedium of the slow moving moments of the 
sick, by taking up some volume of history, or by calling to 
mind the accounts which in former days you have read of the 
rise and fall of the great empires which have existed upon the 
earth. This is truly a sublime view of Providence, and if you 
suffer your mind to pass on in pursuit of the rise and fall of em- 
pires, till you behold not only the last one fall, but the earth 
itself fall, your views will be greatly increased in sublimity; 
and you will be cons.^Jed; Avhich is ever the effect that we de- 
sign your contemplations to lead to, and terminate in. 

Bat, perhaps you ask how consoled? I answer: By view- 
ing and meditating up )n the amazing displays of Divine wis- 
dom, goodness and power ia the upturnings, underturnings and 
overturnings of men, both good and bad. And a steady con- 
sideration of his undeviatingly righteous dealings with all; his 
doing strict justice to every one, and iiijtjstice to none, will be a 
source of g I eat gratification and high entertamment to your 
pious mind. But in taking those eniertaining and consolatory 
vi^^wsof providential dealing and control, yourself of ail other 
sublunary sai>jects of this dealing will be the most interesting 
to yourself You are not exempt from this control. In its ex- 
tension and operations it rea(*hes to you. and has ever had its 
influence upon you, and from it you can never escape. 

Ou this «ui*ject you will naturally and unavoidably be an 
acute and vigilant student. This is a subject which touches 
jour feelings— your keenest sensibilities. You acknowledge 
yourself to be the creature of God, made for his wise and goed 
purpose, and at the same time your own happiness. But your 
ainflictions cause the great question to arise in your breast, how 
is his vvise and good purpose efiected by my grievous pains and 
sorrows and at the same time my happiness brought about by 
tht*se same pains and sorrows? This is the very interesting 
question on which you now become an interested, critical and 
daily student. And after you have thus studied for a length of 
time, and obtained a'l the information you can on the subject, 
your mind sorties upon ihe following view of it, which in this 
manner you briefly express. You say to yourself, it is true I 
am a creauture of th(^ great Creator, and one of the race of 
men. Ia my origiual I was made good and without sin, but 



THE AFFLICTED. 99 

i?rom this good and sinless state there have been an apostacy 
aui a tall: Therefore 1 with all the rest am a sinner and a 
suffjret. Jesus Christ ihs Sjq of God came into the world to 
save sinners. According to the infijiite and unsearchable wis- 
dom and knowledge of the Father who sent him, and plainly 
to satisfv ihe demands of his justice, he must siifFer, and suffer 
to a great extent, in order to save sinners and take their suffer- 
ings up >n himself. This he did. ^'Ho bore our sins in his own 
body on the tree." He suffered not for himself but entirely for 
others. His sufferings were expiatory, not to improve himself 
but to atone for the guilt of others. They were slrictiy, truly, 
and to an unlimited extent, peiiil and vindictive. Ail those 
wh:> believe this; who believe on him and embrace him, are en- 
tirel V and forever delivered from penal sufferings. Th<.se who 
do not, and who die impenitent, are not delivered from penal 
sufferings and never will be. Not only so, but all the) s;»ffer 
in time, and will suffer in eternity is penal, a just rcvvnr 1 for 
their guilt. This is true, and yet their sufferings, in a geueial 
way, are just like the sufferirjgs of those who have believed 
and are delivered. The natural evils of both are a ike, vviih 
this exception, that the wicked appear to have less ihnn the 
righteous. Of this 1 see some proof in the cases of the ri'.th 
man and the beggar Lazarus. In the eternal world, it is ^a^d 
to the rich man — ^'Son, rememi)erthat thou in thy lifetime re- 
ceivedst thy good things, and likewise Lazarus evil things; but 
now he is comforted, and thou art tormented." An all-wise 
and righteous Providence seems to allow them respite here, 
while fiery indignation awaits them, at the appointed time, in 
the place where the rich man is said to be. ^The wicked is 
rosi^rved to the day of djDSiruction." The evils which rest up<'n 
them now, but which are removed from the righteous, at least 
in part, are judicial blindness of mind and hardiiess of heart, 
'JL^hese are moral evils, and incomparably more dreadful in their 
nature than natural evils. But because they are blind they 
see not, and because their hearts are hard they feel not. I'here- 
fore, being wrapped up in the many folded garments of delu- 
sion, "they are not in trouble as other men; neither are xhoj 
plagued like other men." For there are no bands even in their 
^ death. Thus it appears that the providential distinction made 
between the ngh:eous and the wicked in this world is in favor 
of the wicked. Providence does not reward the righteous here 
in such a manner as to convince the wicked that he favors the 
righteous more than the wickerl. Of this the righteous are 
convinced, knowing that thcijj. sufferings are tor their good. I 
decidedly conclude that it is in favor of tlie wicked, if yoa do 



lOlQ ^CONSOLATIONS jOF 

not take into consideration the hope of a better world, whicT 
the riglua;7us have. It seemss tome lo be true, while it is aiso 
true thcit '^ihe way of transgressors is hard." It is true there 
is a present advantage and e!ij:)3aneat in l^ope; but it is 
eqaaliy true that ail the hope that can be given to a creature 
cannot banish present pains and sorrovvb — cannot make present 
suff^ri'.igs present enjoyments, la this conclusion 1 am also 
coriiinned, by the fict that Christ promised his disciples perse- 
ciitiOiis, aai^'ng other things. He let them know that they that 
v/.'iid cj in v^, after him i1f\ ist not only deny themselves but take 
up their crois. The apostle Paul speaks of his ''filling up 
thit which I:* behind o[ the aiiiictions of Christ," The aposlle 
P'jier exib^rrs us to ''rejoice, in as much as we are made parta- 
kers of Cliris.''3 satfci ings " And tells us that we are not to 
"think it strange coacerning the (lery trial which is to try us 
as though some si range diing happened unto us" Thus his 
disciples are to be tried — O it of trials and great tribulations 
they are to enter lieaven The wicked out of lesser and lighter 
trials are to be piiiage 1 into heil. Their trials and sufferings 
hare, though iig-iter, are manife^tl) penal. They view them 
and feel under nom as though they were undeserved and God 
uajast to bring heni on them. They are not humbled under 
them, on acouiit of their guilt and unworthiness and ill de- 
serts. Therefore they have no effect or tendency to correct 
and improve ihem. And therefore also, it evidently and indu- 
bitably appears that they are judicial, or penal, or inflicted up- 
on them as a punishment of their crimes, and not as a trial or 
test which being endured to the end should be succeeded by an 
<^ntire deliverance from all sufferings. 
' August loth, 1829. 

Bat thank God! I hope it is not thus with me. I view the 
plan of salvation, as devised by God the Faiher, accepting and 
being saiistied with the suffn'ings of his Son, as vindictive or pe- 
nal sufferings for me and all his people. So that what I suffer; 
these paiiis and sorrows of mine are not penal but corrective. 
They are the trial or test, which is that which is behind of the 
aiiliciions of Chi ist. In them I do not suffer for others as he 
did, nor even f-.r my own sins in a penal p )int of view. This I 
couid not do, because penal sufferings,. such as he bore, were 
iniiDice, and 1 could not have suffered them out. The wicked 
never will. Mine I may endure unto the end. -They are 
short: — They are light: — They workout for me a far more ex- 
c- sding and efernal weight cf glory. From this view of the 
subject lean see clearly how my pain^and sorrows accomplish 



TflE ATFLICTTED. lOY 

6od's wise and good purpose, and at the same time bring about 
my happiness. Bei-ii^^ conscious, also, of all thai strength of 
rebellion which was in my heart by nature, and the unbending, 
unsubmissive stubbornness of my will, and feeling and know- 
ing by experience, the reducing, overcoming and humbling ef- 
fects and tendency of afflictions, and aisj knowing, that ^^be- 
fore honor cometh humidty,'' before the crown the cross, I am 
not only reconciled to bear them, but even rejoice and thank 
God for these sanctified afflictions which are doing so much 
gOi>d for me. 

My lifetime on earth is but a moment. My existence be- 
yond — eternal, without day, month, year, measure or end. Af- 
flictioQS are one great mean by which G >d prepares me for a 
happy eternity, and by which to elevate me above all sufFc^rings 
ot all kinds and make me secure in bliss. Therefore, with 
good cause I may exclaim — hov/ great is his mercy! how ama- 
zing his love \n afflicting me! In meditating upon his provi- 
dence over all other things and over myself in partic ilar, and 
on that special act of his providence, by which 1 have been 
disappointed in all my plans and prospects of life, and griev- 
ously afflicted, I am thus satisfied, entirely satisfied; my mind 
is reconciled to it and at rest. I see that it is all for the best. 
All things are working together for my good. 

Vour views, and feellings, and conclusions, my friend are 
correct and sound. They are perfectly accordant with the 
highest wisdom and the safest course. 

O'.that we could prevail upon the impenitent who slight the 
Saviour and his salvation, to look forward to the end of time, to 
the judgment over, to "the righteous saved, the wicked damned,''' 
an i the overwhelming floods of divine wrath streaming upon 
them! Would they take such a view, with ^' faith, only as a 
grain of mustard seed,"'' then would they heartily welcome 
such afflictions as yours, and have the same views, and feel- 
ings and conclusions under them that you have. But, alas! 
they do not! 

Thus far, my dear afflicted friend, you have considered the 
design of Providence in your afflictions as it respects yourself, 
but this is quite a contracted, narrow view of the subject. Your 
afflictions, no doubt, are designed by Providence to make you 
a better person not only for your own good, but for the good 
of others. It is to m ike you have rip^hl views and feelings 
concerning this world and the next, so as to cause all your 
conduct to savor of wisdom, and every word to have weight 
and make an impression even upon -he minds of ihe thoughtless. 
If your afflictions have had this proper, legitimate etfect upon 

9 



1(K t •O^'S0 LATIONS OF 

you, it is scarcely necessary for me to advise you to let your 
conduct and words be of this character. As you are disap" 
pointed and pulled down from your earthly plans and schemes, 
and your strength is gone, and paleness has taken its seat upon 
your countenance, you will stand forth an example to all 
around you of the vanity and futility of this world, and you 
will be strongly inclined, very careful, and unceasingly vigil- 
ant to make your words, (as in a certain sense they are,) the 
words of a dying person to all those who have not correct vie v/g 
and feelings concerning the world to come; who are not believ- 
ing, penitent, and humbled as you are. This, doubtless, is no 
small part of the designs of Providence in your afflictions. He 
shuts you out from the ordinary w^ays of man, and curtails you 
of the ordinary enjoyments of this world, that you may be 
weaned trom it, and better prepared to wean others. 

Some persons, in his righteous and adorable providence, he 
brings down to death with a single and sudden blow, that those 
around may tremble and prepare to follow. But you should re- 
joice that it pleases him to serve himself in another way with 
you. As he has stopped you in the course in which you start- 
ed, you are not to suppose, for a moment, that he has no other 
course in which you ought to go. He not only has another, 
but a better. He never chooses the v.orse for the better; but, 
in his wisdom, always the better for the worse. It will be yo«r 
business to look steadily, acutely, and prayerfully to see which 
way the hand of his providence points, and the next thing you 
have to do is to go in that way. In all probability the way in 
which you started was selfish, and had not his glory and the good 
of man enough in vi^w. You must remember, you are his with 
all you are and have, and should be unreservedly devoted to his 
service. The best way that you can serve him on earth, is to ad- 
vance the happiness of mankind. Redoes not leave his children 
and servants without directions. He does not give them work to 
do without telling them what w^ork it is. He will tell them by 
providential indications what he would have them do. A multi- 
tude of things combine and concentre to makeup these providen- 
tial indications, tliis hand of providence, as I have cdled it above. 
The strength which you have; your knowledge of your own feel- 
ings and abihties ; your peculiar turn of mind and strength of 
inmd for this or that employment; the opinions of your most wise 
and prudent friends; together with the openings which miy occur, 
and the smiling prospects of success which may invite; and above 
all the flattering promise of usefulness to man. Thus his hand 
will point to the way. Thus you will hear his voice behind, saying 
^Hhis is the way, walk you in it.'' You need not be surprised, if h^ 



THE AFFLICTED. 108 

should appoint you to that task or work which se^ms very insigni- 
ficant. It is his delight to effect the greatest ends by small means. 
"God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the 
wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to con- 
found the things which are mighty; and base things of the world 
and things which are despised, hath God chosen, yea, and things 
which are not, to bring to nought things that are: that no flesh 
should glory in his presence." Do you have steadily in view his 
glory and the good of man, and very probably, he will choose you, 
one of the weak things of the world, to confound the mighty. By 
your instrumentality, weak as you are, he may work wonders of 
salvation for others. But you must go the way his hand points and 
his voice directs, whether as you proceed along you appear to ef 
feet any thing or nothing. If there is no appearance of good e^ 
fected, your consolation will be that you have done your duty. It 
is possible for you to effect great good, but it not appear to you. — 
Should it appear, it will Le much more enlivening and consolato- 
ry, though it may not be more real nor more extensive. God has 
made some seeds to germinate quicker than others. Some lie long 
in the ground before they sprout. In like manner it is witli spirit- 
ual seeds. In speaking of the business in which you Miay en* 
gage, I do not intend to convey the idea that it will be in your 
power to be entirely devoted to spiritual things. This possibly may 
be the case, but more likely not. The highest probability is that 
you will have to engage in some worldly business to procure a liv' 
ing. In some light easy business of the hands, according to your 
sex and grade in society. Something with the needle, or if you 
be of the other sex, something in merchandise or clerkship, &c. 
In whatever employment you inay engage, you will not likely be 
excluded from intercourse with others. You may be more or less^ 
The more numerous the circfp in which you move, the better op- 
portunity you will have to do good. Let not a single one pass by 
unimproved. Seize every, and the slightest opportunity to point 
all the thoughtless and unconcerned around you, "to the Lamb of 
God which taketh away the sin of the world." Thus, while you 
are exertmg yourself with all possible prudence, activity, vigilance 
and failhfulness to advance the happiness of man, it will be a great 
source of consolation to you, that you are allowed of God to be 
thus employed. You, an undeserving, illdeserving, helldeserving 
sinner, not cut off and cast away, but spared and granted a little 
strength in the world of probation and hope, to speak to men and 
warn them to be wise. To warn and persuade them "to flee from 
the wrath to come ."^^ 

If in God's sparing and amnzing mercy you are thus indulged 
and allowed, thus to serve him, you will J>ave consolation arising 



iCf4 iJONSOLATIONS OF 

flrora another soavce. I mean the regular and daily labor by whin? 
you procure a living. Thousands cannot do tliis nor any thing 
at all towards it. Great will be your satisfliction that you are not 
entirely and absolutely dependent on others for food and raiment, 
and a shelter from the storm. But this is far from being all the sa- 
tisfaction arising out of your business. Man is made for action. 
And in that very action, when it is lawful and wright, God ha« 
placed no small enjoyment. To the sick person, (as you know by 
experience,) it is a very considerable addition to his disease to be 
deprived of this enjoyment. From the industrious and active per* 
son it is taking away a large part of his life. But this in some 
measure still remains with you. Great therefore is your consola- 
tion. Out of this subject there arises an idea which brings to 
view a still larger amount of enjoyment. It is not the duly of per- 
sons in health, much less your duty, to live the life of a recluse; 
secluded from the world and the enjoyment of society. It is al- 
together advisable that a part of that action in which God has 
placed so much enjoyment, and a little of which he has left with 
you, should be put forth in visiting your friends. All physician^ 
and all experience, and all the world know, the good effects to the 
afflicted of a seasonable visit paid at the house of cheerful friends. 
^^Iron sharpeneth iron • so a man sharpeneth the countenance of h'liS 
friend.'* As often as you can, consistently, it will he well for you 
to visit your friends and enjoy their society . Throw off the cares 
of the world entirely, and give yoiKself up to relaxation and so- 
cial entertainment. It will^ at times, he admissible not onlv to 
lay aside worldly cares, but even your spiritual concerns and exep^ 
tions. "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every pur- 
pose under the sun.'' And there will be a season f jryou to su» 
pend all ordinary operations and surrender yourself up to the hos- 
pitality^ courteousness, intelligent discourse, or even innocent chit- 
chat of those whose characters are good and whom you esteem. — 
You may listen to their useful and facetious anecdotes, and indulge 
with them in a hearty laugh. Thus by a timely, free and easy, 
and social visit, you may be entertained with a temperate, and at 
the same time, rich feast of reciprocal hilarity and sober joy. Iiv 
the midst of this, you will forget the afflictions and woes that are 
upon you. Your spirits will be enlivened — your strength recruit- 
ed, and you encouraged to go on with a greater decree of alacrity 
and delight in the desirable path of duty. This is consolation. 

As you are a christian I presume you will not abuse what I have 
said on the subject of visiting friends, by supposing that I thereby 
design to give you license to frequent or tend balls, parties, or 
sumptuous entertainments where matters are carried beyond the^ 
bouftds of temperate sociability and reasonable amusement.— - 



ill 



THE AFFLICTED. 105 

iVhere wild mirth, dissipation and intemperance are practised, 
in every supposable way. In licentious and extravagant eating, 
drinking, exercising, and ruinous loss of rest and sleep. These 
are no places for a christian to frequent, much less nn afflicted 
christian. They are hot beds which produce afflictions, rather 
than relieve or remove them. — Hundreds and thousands who are 
chronic valetudinarians if they would be honest and candid, would 
teil you, that they caught their diseases by the intemperance of 
such resorts. 

It was to quiet, and private family circles, to which 1 designed 
to advise you to pay your visits. If you visit larger circles, they 
should be associations of religious persons. This brings us to a 
close of what we had to say on the subject of providence, to 
which, and to the obedience of which, we have been referring you 
for consolation under your afflictions. And it also leads us on 
to the high and important subject of your own personal enjoy- 
ments of 

RELIGION. 

Here again, as in all theforementioned things, you have greatly 
the advantage of the patient who is violently and suddenly brought 
down and closely confined to his room, the sick person's prison. 
You cannot only sit up and read your bible at home, but visit reli- 
gious assemblies, during the week, that meet to sing and pray — 
and on the holy sabbath day, you can say, with and to others, "let 
us go into the house of the Lord. Our feet shall stand within 
thy gates, O Jerusalem!" Your feet can stand, not only within 
her gates, but walk within her palaces, and in the midst of the 
courts of God's house, surrounded by the congregation of the 
people^ you may unite your heart with them in solemn and exalt- 
ed worship. In warm and lively devotion before the great King, 
the Majesty of heaven and earth. Religion! religion! dearest 
word sounded in mortal ears, grand and greatest source of coliso- 
lation to unhappy man ! Unequalled soother of his pains, and so- 
vereign antidote for all his maladies! Great banishei of guilt, 
darkness and doubts, and introducer of light, hope, joy and eter- 
nal life! Kind heaven's highest, richest boon to hapless, hopeless 
man; bringing life and immortality to light in his soul; his soul 
otherwise enveloped in darkness and filled with misery!! This gift 
of God to fallen man, unquestionably paramount to ail others, in- 
cluding in it the gift of his Son, which is called "unspeakable;'^ 
you, unworthy as you feel yourself to be, do entertain a modest, 
humble and strong hope, has been given to you. Has been im- 
plaited in your soul, by the gracious means of God's appointment, 
and tfie p<)werful agency of the Divine Spirit, the great Comforter. 
You have very carefuUv, minutely and extensively examined the 



^OB Ct>NSOLATlON9 OF 

evidences by which it may be known to a person's self, wiih greafei 
or less certainty, whether it is within him or not : and with all diffi- 
dence and self condemnation, and unspeakable gratitude \ou are 
f3ncouraged to think it is within you. If this conclusion is ac- 
cording to truth, (and 1 must conf5ider it so,) all riches are within 
you, "the unsearchable riches of Christ,'' to buy which the man 
is wise who sells all else. Thus you have done, you have purled 
with and forsaken all for Christ, for religion, and are willing to 
loose your life to gain life. You have a sense of pardoned sin. — 
¥ou are restored to the favor of God and reconciled unto him. — 
His love is in your heart and you have communion with him and 
with his Son Jesus Christ. You have no fear of eternal torment, 
'^Perfect love casteth out fear." You feel yourself to be in a safe 
condition and a safe place. You have fled from the wrath to come, 
Wou see it coming, but not where you are or are to be. As I have 
hinted above, you have time and strength not only 1o read the bi- 
ble but to read it leisurly, and in all its parts. In its proclamsN 
tions and offers of mercy, pardon and life to the wicked. In its 
counsels, and warnings and exhortations, and persuasions of them; 
and its terrible, and alarming threatenings denounced against them 
\>y the voice of the eternal God, which speaks from heaven and 
shakes the whole earth. Threatenings which he will infallibly ex- 
ecute upon them if they do not repent and turn. This is the 
wrath that is to come upon the finally impenitent. You read of 
it in all the multiplied ways and under all the diffeient and nu* 
merous figures by which it is declared and represented in the sa- 
ered volume. You firmly believe it and are escaping from it, and 
Jiave so far escaped as to feel safe. Thus you enjoy religion.— *~ 
And again, you have equally as much lime and leisure, and are 
pleased to occupy more of them, much more, in reading and pon- 
dering over repeatedly, and from time to time, all the doctrines and 
precepts for instruction, with which the scriptures do so richly 
abound. Furthermore, there is not a single precious promise of 
encouraging word within the lids of God's holy book, to which 
yon may not turn, and on which feast your mind. In this you 
•will delight to be engaged. It is a feast indeed to the pious heart. 
A feast at which you are in no danger of excess or surfeiting.—* 
Where you connot partake too freely, and all you do receive will 
he well relished and give you great strength. Consequently, yotl 
scarcely let a day pass without partaking of this feast, without 
reading and meditating upon one or more fif the kind and gra- 
cious promises of a forgiving and saving God. Thus you enjoy 
religion and are consoled. 

Again, there are many doctrinal and practical books written by 
pious and able men who were sound in the faith. Which bookp 



THH AVThfcrm. ion 

were ctesigned and are well calculated to aid ug in our views or 
the scriptures and in the practice of our life. To some if not to 
ail of these you h ive access. Some are written in prose j others 
in poetry. Both will instruct and entertain you. Both will assist 
you to have higher and more correct and exalted views of many texts 
©f scripture, and of the whole plan of salvation. The more pi- 
©us of them wil greatly enliven your devotion, kindle your zea1| 
and warm your heart, and fill it with holy and happy and almost 
rapturous emotions and affections. The enthusiastic sublimity, 
and burning ferver of chaste and correct and pious poetry, will in- 
deed fire your mind and make you all alive in heavenly contem- 
pl itions and heavenly hopes. Not one of all the thousand chorde^ 
that twine about your heart will remain unstrung and unmoved as 
you read but all will vibrate, simultaneous and harmonious; — 
touched with the exquisite sensibilities of spiritual joy and love, 
with which indulgent heaven is pleased to visit the christian's 
breast. This is religion, this is consolation. 

But tliis is far from being the limit of your privileges. Yots 
have strensfth and can have composure to enjoy your private de- 
votions. You can say, when alone with God, '^learken unto the 
voice of my cry, my King, and my God : for unto thee will I 
pray. My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O Lord: in the 
morning will 1 direct my prayer unto thee, and will look up.'"^— 
Morning, noon and evening, can you let your voice be heard by 
your King and your God, and direct your prayer unto him nnd 
look up. And while you thus stand looking up, and directing 
your prayer to the great One, you feel yourself to be in the imme- 
diate presence of the august and awful Majesty of all worlds. A 
deep solemnity falls upon you, and you tremble with reverential 
fear. You see his greatness and his glory. You remember your 
rebellion and the depth to which you had sunk in sin and misery, 
and how low this fifreat, condescending King stooped to reach you. 
You adore his M jnsty. Your heart is filled and overflows with 
gratitude, and you give thanks unto hirn, and praise his holy name 
that he did not permit you to sink forever. With all earnestness 
and importunity; and with the feelings of a son m the presence 
of a tender father, you most devoutly and fervently implore his 
clemency and his smiles upon you a poor sinner, one of the chief 
of sinners. That he would forgive all your sins, wash away ill 
your uncleanness, entirely renew your nature and make you a new 
creature in Christ Jesus, "and meet to be pirtciker of the inherit- 
-ance of the saints in light." And thus having prayed for the ren- 
ovation, and restoration and salvation of your soul, which is the 
m itter of highest concern, and feeling yourself to be henrd -mdl 
answered, you next intreat your he<iv©uly Father to pity your poof' 



109 COJTsOLATrONS Of? 

diseased body an3 remove your disease, if agreeable to his vviH. If 
not, that he would mitigate your pains, and if not that, that he 
may be pleased to resign you to them and afford you courage and 
strength and patience lo endure them; to endure as seeing him 
who is invisible, and to endure unto the end, until your soul shall 
1^ released from its clay tabernacle and admitted into the society 
for which it is meet. Of that society, as you thus stand a suppli* 
ant on earth, your eyes being directed heavenward, you have a 
foresight, and of its joys your gracious King affords you a fore- 
taste. I'his is one of the highest enjoyments of religion. 

Another, to wJiich 1 must not fail to direct your attention, is 
singing the praises of God. This is an exercise in which you may 
frequently engage. Even in your daily employment you may break 
the silence that surrounds you, chase the woes that press upon 
you, and enliven your droo;:)ing spirits, by a cheerful song of sa- 
cred praise. The fascinating and charming power of music is in- 
deed gieat. You remember its effects upon unhappy Saul. I 
am speaking of sacred music for you, no matter how you make it 
or hear it made, with the voice or on musical instruments. I 
would highly recommend it to you. The voice makes the best 
and is more natural. It also connects sense with sound. Not 
every one has a voice for it, and if you have, in your afflicted state 
you may not have strength to use it. If so, or %vhether or not, 
your delightful christian duties will lead you to assemble often 
with those who sing the songs of Zion. Who "sing with the spi- 
rit and with the understanding," and make melody in their hearts 
and with their voices to God. While in the midst of these soft 
melodies, gentle tones, sweet harmonies and enrapturing airs; be- 
fore "ever you are aware, youi soul makes you like the chariots of 
Amininadib." You are wafted aloft, heavenward, upon the gen- 
tle waves of sound, and feel happy. Happy by the alluring effects 
of musical sounds, and by the devotional, worshipful and spirit- 
ual sense conveyed by the words that are sung. This is religious 
enjoyment. This banishes the miseries and melancholy of a shat- 
tered constitution and superinduces a better state of feeling. And 
this done you are consoled. 

Again, if you take enjoyment from your own private devotions, 
and from notes of praise sounded by your own voice in private, or 
by others in company, you will be no less pleased with the prayers 
and worship offered up by others. More especially when you go 
to church, and listen to a pious, humble, devout, ardent, able and 
eloquent minister of the gospel, preaching "the unsearchable rich- 
es of Christ," the astonishing mercy and amazing love of a sin* 
pardoning God. You with the congregation are seated below, he 
hia the pulpit above, as if having come from on high, directly 



XHE APPLIOTED. iCfi) 

frhm the throne of the great King, with messages of grace to you, 
rebels. All are composed, there is profound silence. He, with 
much self possession, slowly rises, and with all that seriousness 
and solemnity, and gravity, and dignity, and pleasantness which 
a human countenance can express, looks around upon the assem- 
bly, and breaks the deep silence, by saying — Ye sons, and ye 
daughters of earth, it has long been well known to you that your 
present state of existence is not happy. The cause you have sought 
for. Partially the light of nature has declared it. The book of 
revelation has made it known fully. This book I have examined. 
You and all have sinned, and are rebels against heaven\«? King, 
who made you, and to whose jurisdiction ^ou belonged. You are 
here, and not in hell, sure proof that heaven's King is mf^rciful as 
well as great. Mercy, strange word! known not in heaven, nor in 
hell, nor on any world but the earth. The earth! grand theatre, cha* 
sen by the high and ancient King, whereon to display that othef 
wise unknown thing, (viz.) mercy. The earth rebelled. Second re-^ 
•ellion in his reign. The first rebels received no quarters. In behalf 
ef a part, at least of those of the second, a new feeling, never be- 
fore felt, arose in the eternal Father''s mind. This was a feeling 
of pity towards them, and this feeling he called mercy. This 
feeling siayed his hand, and he did not thrust them down beyond 
hope. His Son the high and amiable Prince of heaven, touched 
by the same feeling, with all reverence, said to his Father, " PU 
mend ^he wrong they have doue, whatever be the cost to myself.^' 
The Father well pleased accepted the offer. The Son undertook 
the stupendous work, clearly foreseeing the frigfitful cost. He 
took it in hand immediately, and men were governed with steady 
reference to his undertaking. It was not required by the Fithet 
that he should proceed directly to the execution of the more dread* 
ful part of the work. Previous to this, men might be saved and 
were saved, by way of credit from the Father to the Son. To 
execute this more dreadful part, required the descent of the Prince 
of heaven to earth, required of him, incarnation, humiliation and 
indescribable sufferings. To these he has submitted. And the 
divine Spirit has been sent to apply the salvation wrought out. — 
Tliese are the counsels of mercv and of grace which moved the 
independent eternal Fathev's mind towards rebellious men. These 
are the deeds of love and pity performed, for them, by his coeter- 
nal Son. 

You, my fellow men, with all your race, were made intelligent 
beings, having understandings to know and wills to choose.-— 
Y<»ur rebellion has impaired these but not deprived you of them. — 
God is a perfect Sovereign, and your wills are perfectly free. — 
Tw4) tiutbs ylaizi and eas^ Xq be understgod whoa viewed sefja-. 



110 CONSOLATIONS OF 

rately, but if you attempt to reconcile them, the undcrtakihg is 
above your present powers. Tis a mystery with which you have 
nothing to do. Your business is to choose or refuse this great sal- 
vation. And now, my dear fellow mortals, being "allowed of God 
to be put in trust with the gospel,'' I have thus preached it unto 
you. "1 have not shunned to declare unto you all the counsel of 
God.'' It remains for you to determine and choose how you will 
treat it. Will you believe it, repent of your rebellion, throw dowB 
your arms and accept the offered mercy, have hope in your lif<^ 
hope in your death, and in the world to come, perfect happiness 
and fulness of joy forevermore, in presence of heaven's high, and 
holy and happy King, and all the pure spirits that are about 
hirn? or will you persist in your rebellion, slight and despise, and 
reject all these wise and rich and costly provisions of grace, and 
meet the doom of rebels? Take care, O ye immortals! take all 
possible care how you decide on this point! No decision made 
by human beings is equal to this. All others in comparison to it 
dwindle to nothing. On it is poised your all. Consider what, 
as rebels, you have already felt. O look at what is before you ; 
and suffer your minds to glance one thought, one slight view to 
what heaven has done and ofiers; and the arms of your rebellion 
will drop to the ground, your hearts will melt with sorrow, and 
you will embrace with your whole souls the offered salvation.-^ 
May heaven's merciful King grant the same. Amen. 

You listened to the discourse with both your ears and all your 
heart. And as the speaker delivered it with deep feeling, great earn- 
estness, and burning zeal, and pious persuasion, you embraced the 
*' good tidings of great joy" with every feeling of your soul ; you 
rejoiced and exulted to receive pardon and salvation from heaven's 
offended King. You, now at the close, look around upon the con- 
gregation to see if all appear to take as much interest in hearing 
the" good tidings of great joy." You see some few that do, some 
careless, others asleep. Not so with you. One good effect of your 
afflictions is to make you hungry and eager to hear the kind mes- 
sages of grace, the free offers of pardon and life. They give all 
parts of your religious exercises a sweeter relish than otherwise they 
are apt to have. Thus at church, you enjoy religion and are con- 
soled. You retire with the retiring congregation, and as you walk 
along you think of 

THE PRINCE OF HEAVEN, 
the Son of God, Jesus Christ. You say to yourself, in the pious 
and silent meditations and musings of your heart, is it possibe? is 
it posible? did the Prince of heaven do and suffer all these things 
forme? Is it a "faithful saying and worthy of all acceptation, 
^hat Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners^" and me who 



THE AFFLXCTBDi lU 

ano one of the chief of sinners? The bible declares it, — the 
preacher declares it— the Saviour when on earth proved it, and mj 
heart loves him, and this is pioof to me that he died not only for 
sinners but for me a sinner. O the love of Jesus ! the love of 
Jesus, the Prince of heaven! how great I how great ! reaching from 
heaven to eath, and drawing him down from the throne of all hon- 
or, and glory and blessedness to a cross of lowest shame and un- 
utterable wo! 

You think of the " glory which he had with the Father before 
the world was." That he w^s the " brightness of his Father's glory 
and the express image of his person, upholding all things by the 
word of his power." That the Father said unto him — " Thy 
throne, O God, is for ever and ever." — That he created " all things 
visible and invisible." That the father said " let all the angles of 
God worship him." " And that in him dvvelleth all the fulness 
of the Godhead bodily." 

You call to your recollection every thing that is said of him in 
the scriptures. You think of every attribute of his whole charac- 
ter as God and man, and every trait by which he is exhibited to an- 
gles and men. Unto the angels he is good and imparteth unto 
them of his fulness; so that they love him much ajid worship him 
continually. Unto men and to you, he is much more than good; 
he is merciful. Therefore your love him more and would desire 
to excel the angles in his v^orship. In him every excellence cen- 
tres. His character is complete and nothing can be added unto 
him. He is the glory of the heavens, and the joy of the whole 
earth! Your love arid gratitude and attachment and devotion un- 
to him are so great, that the language of your whole heart is 
^ Whom have 1 in heaven but thee? and there is none upon earth 
that I desire desides thee." 

Thus in meditating upon the character of the Prince of heaven, 
the Saviour of men, you enjoy religion. And yonr enjoyment will be 
equal in meditating upon the character of theeternal Father. You 
will be in no danger, of honoring the Son more than the Father. As 
you are afflicted and specially need comfort, you think much of 
the great comforter. In all the scenes through which you pass, and 
particularly in all your ieligious exercises and experience, you 
meditate very observingly and most deeply concerning his gifts 
and graces and operations which are within you. You, like all 
others, once had no religion, was a child of nature, without these 
gifts and graces and operations; but now, the" love of God is shed 
abroad in your heart by the Holy Ghost which is ^iven unto you." 
You are '* the trmple of tlie Holy Ghost, and the spirit of God 
dwelleth in yo;i." " The Spirit itself heareth witness with your 
spirit that you are a child of God." ^' And if a child, then an 



116 ^(^^•S0LATXDNS Qt 

heir, an heir of God, and a joint heir with Christ .'' An heir '^ to 
an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away, 
reserved in heaven for j^ou.^' The spirit itself heareth witness 
with your spirit of these great and most comfortable facts, ihat 
you are no longer a child of nature, but a child of God, and a 
joint heir with Christ the Pince of heaven; whose inheritance is 
very Urge and exteiisivf, in his Father's dominions. Lnrge 
enough to divide out liberally to all those who ar? joint heirs with 
him. So large that the number of these cannot be so much in- 
creased, but that he will be able to give unto every one to the full ex* 
tent of his or her wishe<5. And because the grant which every one 
shall receive, will be thus c mmensurate with every individual's 
largest desires, it is called his inheriting all ihinus. " He that 
overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God and he 
^hall be my son " Thus while ''the spirit itself beareth witness 
witti yo\ir spiiit that you are a child of God,'' it beareth witness 
that you shall eventually inherit all your heart can wish, shall in- 
herit all things, and be a son of God, like unto the Prince of Ima- 
Ten his first born. When the Spirit, the Holy Ghost, the great 
Comforter is thus within you, comforting you and leaching you 
and bringing to your rememberance all the things of Christ, what- 
soever hfe has said and done for your salvation, and giving yoa 
strength and courage to suppress all doubts, and a full assurance 
of faith and hope that you will ultimately conquer and triumph 
over ail enemies visible and invisible, and enter into and take pos- 
session of the above heavenly inheritance, you enjoy religion and 
are consoled. Indeed, my dear friend, this is the highest enjoy- 
ment of religion. This is the enjoyment of God; and together 
with what we have said of the Father and the Son, is the enjoy- 
ment of the triune God, which is the fullest consolation a cream re 
on earth can have, and which is the last I shall attempt to suggest 
to your thoughts. 

These are your personal enjoyments of religion. And it pleas^ 
Gth the God of grace to grant you these fiom time to time, as you 
move along in life, and need consolation. This is religion, and 
you increase in it more and more, and abound and grow, " and 
hope to continue to grow tilt you shall comiO unto a perfect man, 
unto the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ" 

1 have now my dear afflicted fellow sufferer, according to m.y 
feeble abilities, performed the task 1 took in ht^nd. lam done.— 
I have brought all things to your view, or at leas^ aiven you a clew 
to all things, To nature, thrnu(?hont her multiform and vast do- 
main; and to nature's God, who is the God of Abraham, the Cod of 
©in- fathers, and the God of salvntion. Accordinly you turn your 
attention to these things^ and thoughts^ and considerations, to oih: 



THE APFLICTEB. 115 

tain consolation and exliilarating cordiils as yon move on in the 
dark valley of adversity. You reap more or less advantages from 
them, according to the gentleness or violence of your disease, and 
the time and leisure allowed you. 

Thus you linger along, with intervals of better and worse, for 
weeks, or months, or perhaps a few years. But, in the appoint- 
ments and aUotments of Providence, the time has arived when yonr 
disease instead of permitting yon to take long journeys, or neigh- 
bourhood rides or walks, or even dooryard walks, shuls you up to 
the contracted circumference of your room, and prostrates you up- 
on your back on the l)ed of sickness, fe^^hieness and languishment. 
This is now your undesirable and unlovely condition; your consti- 
tution sh'^ttev'^d; the annual michine greitly worn and wasted and 
ap))ro3chinof to exhnusMon and dissolution, and the mind almost 
unavoidably Heiec ed and discourrig;d. 

h is diuicidt now to hope for life, l)ut difficult as it may be you 
muH do it. You have hern d<jwn before, and quite as Inw as you 
are now, and froi^i that depression and prostration, you neverthe- 
less arose and have since seen mnny good days on the earth. This 
you may do again, notwi^h^irandir.ir all the advjint^ges the disease 
has obtained over yofu" fraj'Ke. You have become accustumed to 
endure pain and weakness, arid mny endure this renewed atfack and 
rise agiin! Be that as it may « he circumstances under which you 
are b'-ought down now, are hotter thnn in any former c:?se. You 
have had time after time, -md repeated opportunites and f ivorable 
ones too, to tbink, and meditate, -md foresee, and prepare for this 
^season of sorrow and trial. You have before been nigh unto 
death and looked the monster in the face. Yr.u have had time to 
be engaged in the manner I hve described above. — Time to con- 
verse with your friends — rend the' BiLde, and other books, and this 
book of consolarions; to make up vour mind, and beinnllre- 
spf^ctt^j prepared in your vipws and feeliegs to meet whatever Provi- 
dence may have before you. 

You are at this time upon your back, a feeble mortal contend- 
ing and struggrng wiih a disease v/hich has long waged war upon 
you, and often got the better, and sunk you very low; and is now 
dfuly sinking you low^er and lower than ewr before. Yonr case 
at this juncture loses iis peculiarity and rims into tfie case of the 
patient described in the former part of this work; with (his excep- 
tion that your sink'ug or rising will most likely be much more 
gradual than his. To that case T refer you. I shall not repeat in 
so fuU a manner, the description of the serious scene through 
which you are passing, nor of that winch is before vou in either ca'se 
of life or death. 1 have alroiid v tUMitioned ^be advantag*^ you have 
over him in the slow gradual m nmerin which you were brou^dU 

10 



114 CONSOLATIONS OP 

down. In other respects, like him, you have your physician.*-- 
Though you had discharged him, yet now he rcimes u» i-ee you to 
do you what Utile good iie can. Your friends aie around you.— 
^ You have their aid, and their prayers, and pious conversntiort: — 
Your good minister of the gospel visits yon. And your fisiihful, 
guardian nurse is continually with you. You are n(w^ come into 
a condition more s(^rious than any youever knew yourself to he in ij 
since you commenced your existence. And this condition is be- l|| 
coming more and more serious every day. Your disease is m'^.ni- 
fest.ly gaining ground. You are losing strength r^spidly. You are 
already so much reduced as tt/ exhibit to view rather a skeleton 
than a human being clothed with flesh. There is a crisis, liot 
many weeks, or at the furthest a very few months before you, 
which will decide to which world yo!i belong, the visible or invisi- 
ble. The wheels of time are steadily rolling you on to ir. You 
have no way to stop them, and you cannot stop yourself. You 
must approach this crisis. You must come to it. " It is appointed 
unto all men once to die and after death the judgment." Here 
you speak out and say if I have that to do, '' 1 am nor afraid to die, 
Theie is no fear of death in my heart. - It is true I have had all 
the advantages of which you have spoken, and it has pleased God 
to bless them unto me, so that I feel eniirely prepared to meet 
death. My Saviour has robbed him c»f his sting, and removed the 
glooms froTTi about him. 1 feel much of the confidence of the 
apostle, when he said "I am now ready to be oflered and the time 
of my departure is at hand. I have f<^u2ht a good fi,2ht,I have 
finished my course, I have kept the faith: henceforth there is laid 
up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord the righteous 
pidge shall give me at that day." In short God is with me, and 1 
feel myself to be a christain. And to you my friends I would 
say, and to the world, that it is better not to be a human being, 
than not to be a ckHstain. For myself I can say '•! long to eat 
of that tree which is planted in the midst of the paradise of 
God, and to drink of the pure river, clear as crystal, that runs 
through the streets of the New-Jerusalem. I long to be refreshed 
•with the souls of them that are urider tlie altar, who were slain for 
the word of God, and the testimony that they held; and to have 
those long white robes given me, that I may wrdk in white raiment 
with those sflorious saints, who have washed their garments, r^nd 
made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Why should I think 
it a strange thing to be removed from this place, to that where my 
hope, my joy, my crown, my elder Brother, my Head, my Father, 
my Comforter, and all the glorious saints are, and where the song 
of Moses and the Lamb is sung joyfully; where we shall not be 
compelled to sit by the rivers of Babylon, and hang up our harp^ 



TlfE AFFLICTED. 



lU 



oh the willow frees, but. shall take them up, and sing the new hal- 
lelujah. Blessing, honor, glory and power, to him that sits upon 
the throne, and to the Lamh, for ever and ever ? What is there 
under the old vault of the heavens, and in this old-worn eartn, 
which is groaning under the bondage of corruption, that should 
m ike me desire to remain here? I expect that new heaven and 
new eirth, wherein righteousness dwelleth, wherein I shall rest for 
evermore. I look to get entry to the New-Jerusalem at one of 
these twelve gites, whereupon are written the names of the twelve 
tribes of Isreal. I know that Jesus Christ hath prepared them 
for me. Why may I not then, with boldness in his blood, step in- 
to that glory, where my head and Lord hath gone before me ?^ — ^ 
Jesus Christ is the door and the porter; who then shall hold me 
ou;? O thou fairest among the children of men, the delight of 
mankind, the light of the Gentiles, (he glory of the Jews, the life 
of the dead, the joy of angels and saints, my soul pariteth to be 
with thee." 

This is your language as you approach the crisis. You get n& 
bettef^and are moving on to it constantly. Some days have now 
elapsed. Your coun;e and your progress are still onwards and 
more rapid. You approach death, and death you, and unles there 
is some great change and turning about there will have to be a 
meeting between you. Not merely such a meeting as of friendly 
ships from distant ports in mid ocean; eras of friendly travellers, 
from remote parts of a continent, meeting in the wilderness and 
cheering eachother's hearts, but as of fierce warriors upon the-- 
plain of single combat. Rather, your meeting will be within the 
confined circumference of this room, and in that corner, and on that 
bed where you now lie. It is yet unc3rtain what the result of 
your meeting wdl be, whether you will have to surrender or death 
be foiled and retire. But one thing is certain; at this moment 
you are not far apart, and death, like a beast of prey, the nearer he 
gets the more rapid his movements. He comes! he comes! 0!he 
comes! The friends gather around, but all in vain. The combat is 
single, and cannot be otherwise. Friends must I go? Must I go? 
His the appoin'ed moment como? We cannot tell. It looks very 
much like it If so, welcome death ! welcome death ! welcome death ! 
With all thy rudeness, and ferocity and terrible aspect, I meet 
(heo as a fiend. Dear relations and friends of earth! Farewell! 
F I rowel I! I cannot stay! I go to seek a better world! Prepare to 
follow!! " Prepare to meet your God!!!" Death lays hold and the 
prey is hi.^. Sabbath Morning, Oct.. llth 1S29'.' 



FOR THE YOUIVG, IN AFFLICTIOl^. 



It w'll be recollected by the reader that I promised to write for 
several lasses of mankind, who might be in affliction. I selected 
the christian community for the first class, and thus fir have writ- 
ten for them. I select the yonng, who may be in affliction, for the 
next class. This is a very interesting part of mankind; and one 
which, in health, stands greatly in need of instruction and correct 
feelings. Much more so, when in afflidion. That person who is 
so far blessed of God as to do or write any thing which shall ex- 
tensively advance their intellectual and moral interests, is indeed 
blessed of God, and in no small des^ree serves his generation. Un- 
speakably great is the responsibility of him who sets himself to 
this task, especially in the way of writing. Their temporal and 
eternal destinies may be suspended upon what may drop from his 
pen. Their usefulness and hap})iness in time and in eternKty.— ^ 
To do or say any thing which will turn a 1 nge number of ihem 
out of that "way in which they should (7o," is like turning a great 
liver out of its course at its head, which as it rushes along will 
desolate the country through which it pisses. Thus ihey will 
overrun and destroy others, and in the destruction will destroy 
themselves. Were we to see those of one nation, and of another, 
and of all nations, thus misguided, we would behold a world, rush- 
ing to desolation and destruction. And on the oUier hand, if they 
be guided into "the way in which they should i?o," urd dn go in 
that way, we would behold a world regularly moving on to "glory, 
honor, immortali-y, yea, and eternal life."^' Such is the weight, 
and such the intrinsic importance of wfiit is done to guide our 
youth. It is fir f»'om being the object of tb^ writer to attempt, in 
an extensive degree, this guidance. I write for the afflicted, and 
do not mean to enlarge on what I may be enabled to introduce to 
their notice and considerauon. 

Be it my task then to speak unto such, in a plain, easy, familiar 
and affectionate style, a word or two of consolation. Those who 
are yet in their childhood I shall not stop to address. Such, who 
may be in affliction, (for no j'ge is exemp%) f shall leave to becon- 
§oJed by their pareuis and friends. 1 have to do with those who 



I^HS AFPLtCtSa, lit 

ctn read. Thig will embrace ail from ihe aere of fen to twenty^ 
w'lo hive hid Ihn proper and desirable advantages of schooling. At 
th.s rime uf life, borh sexes are liable to be seized by diseases 
HI) eor less vioh^n j of shorter or longer continuance, but the fe- 
nj tie sex Ls more li ible th;n the other, particularly to chronic dis- 
ordi-rs. And as both are liable to diseases, calamities and disas^ 
te s of all 'xiads, they are also liable to death. My task therefore, 
li^c^. j;hat which 1 hive alrejdy performed, is truly a serious one. 

I wish roade-s to bear steadily in mind the notice which I have 
bef >ie given, that I design my observations to be applicable to 
bot.i sexes. I shall, as hercofore, use the word person wherever 
I c in, which applies with equal propriety to both. To my female 
readers, who -re daughters of affliction, I would say, that when I 
am compelled to use the words he and him, while at the same time- 
I design my discourse for both sexes, it is after the usage of wri- 
ters both ancient and modern. In grammar, when both genders 
are addressed, the masculine is considered the more worihy, and 
is used in preference to the feminine. This, as you well know, 
has its foundation in nature. A- you read along then, ye fair 
ones in trouble, my dear sisters in affliction and sorrow, it is only 
necessary for you to substitute the words she and her, &c., in 
place of he and him, &c., in order to receive into your own ten- 
der, but aching hearts, the consolaiinns that may be offered. 

And now my dear juvenile compmion in affliction, may kind 
heaven touch my heart with the liveliest sympathies, while f hum- 
bly but earnestly attempt to pour into your disconsolate heart, 
some reviving cordial, some "oil of joy for mourninof,^'and to pre- 
sent unto you, some "garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.'''" 
At the close of the two preceding cases, I ventured to say to the 
patient^ that 1 had brought all things to his view for consolation, 
or at least given him a clew to all things. But this J did without 
specifying or particvdarizing anv particular characters further than 
that they were christians* They might be in their afflictions, 
young or old, poor or rich, single or married, at home surrounded 
by a beloved circle of dear rel itives and friends, or in a distant or 
foreign land, strangers among stnngfTS. 

As 1 hid in that, done what I designed to do in particularizing, 
in a summary way, the diftorent sources of consolation, the various 
things and tlioughts and beiags which might contribute to the re- 
lief or help of the sons and daugliters of sorrow, I now proceed 
to the ex<'Cution of my purpose in particularizing characters. — 
This part of my plan, owing to its nature, and to its connection 
with the foregoing, will be in its parts even more summ:iry than 
that. I \y\\q rh'^-u» embodied the mnin part of my consolations.— 
In what follows it will be mv chief business to refer several difier- 



MS COIN^SOLATIONS Oi 

ent classes of mankind to them, and tell them how to receive arvfl 
appropriate them. In short it will be to attend to the peculiari- 
ties of their cases, rather, as it respects their standing and condi- 
tion in society, than the ditFerent diseases which may be praying 
upon them. 

Accordingly, I proceed to consider your case, my dear your^g 
friend. You are young; a^d this is that grand peculiarity in your 
character and condition to which I now diect ray attention. Al- 
most literally, you ""are of yesterday." According to the purpose 
and by the power and order of the eternal Creaior, you sprang into 
existence, but a short time since, upon the earth. Out of nothing 
you made your appearance here upon this struggling world. Tho' 
struggling, yet it is fascinating, and oOen promises to its inhabi- 
tants, especially to the new comers among them, great and flatter- 
ing things. Indeed to the new comers, this it almost alw. ys 
does. Thus it did to you. As soon as your senses began to open 
snd notice its siiivounding objects, you were allured and elated 
with the prospect. Like all that are born of women, at your intro- 
duction to its scenery you were entirely ignorant of its nature and 
condition. You mistook this wilderness of thorns and briars for 
a paradise, and vainly thought the people here hcippy. In this 
Hianner you passed the days of your childiiood, without any great 
©r signal check in your thoughts, and views, and feelings and pro- 
^^ress. External things and circumstances continued fair and in- 
viting. No dark cloud intruded iiself into the atmosphere of your 
prospects, to put out your hopes and cover you with gloom. Tlie 
state of internal things Vv-as equally flattering. You grew with a 
TJgorous and rapid growth, and you daily felt an increase of strength 
in your frame. Your limbs and features, and whole person, were 
r-egular and well proportioned, and as you advanced tovv-ards ma- 
turity of growth, appeared more and more noble and grand to 
others, hut especi'illy to yourself. Your Isair wns fuie and beauti- 
ful. Your eye penetrating and attracting. The rose in all the 
freshness and glory of its bloom perched upon your cheek. Not 
a wrinkle or fiurow, as yet, had trials and sorrovv ploughed across 
the lineaments of your noble featues. Your lips smiled graceful- 
ly and pleasantly, and you had entirely come up to the bloom of 
life. But what is more than all, you were an almost entire stran- 
ger to sickness and pain. Scarcely a day had you felt even slightly 
ill. Scarcely a single pain had you discovered in any part of your 
frame. The fountain of life flowed full and healthy, th"oughout 
your whole system. Then, it was sweet to eat — it was sweet to 
sleep. Your mind, your mind, was so easy and so much delight- 
ed, yea, intoxicated, that you were almost constantly employed m 
b.mlding castles in the air, as we say in modern phraseology.— 



TH£ AFFLfCTE©, IW 

And into one of these castles, with your head full of sche'iies^ 
you had mounted, fur above the level urid ordinary movements of 
persons of riper years and more experience. But at length, the 
Unthought of and undreaded moment comes, and a fell diseases 
creeps up the long ascent to where you are, puts out its merciless, 
migiily, monstrous hand, defaces your beauty, tears from you your 
strength, and breaks your hold. Down headlong, from your lofty, 
aerial height, you fill, with a sudden shock and dreadful crush! 
O! my dear young prostrated friend, J admit you need consolation 1 
you do indeed greatly need consol.iUon ! And if the disease which 
has laid hold on you, is violent and raging, you need it hasiily or 
it may come forever too late. But in either case, whether vio- 
lent or moderate, were your tongue to atier',:pt to express the feel- 
ings of your aching heart, and could it use words most expressive^ 
all in the superlauve degree, it would utterly fail to express the in- 
tensity of your desires for cons^ lation, relief and restoration to 
health. The tiiought, the keenly penetrating thought, that all 
your earthly hopes may now be blasted, in addition to the pains 
you feel, gives a stirig to every nerve, and harrows up all the ex- 
quisitively unliappy feelings of ycMir disconsolate soul. 

Wh n ! say yon, to be pulled down and stopped, and it may be 
©ut oif, in the very bloom of lifVl not in the mi<]sr, of my days 
tut in the very beginning of them! not when my career is iialf or 
almost run, but pist at its commencement! O! how irreconcila- 
ble the thought! bow intolerable! I cannot bear it! I cannot bear 
it! it will break my heir! ! it will indeed break my heart ! Perh;ips 
Bot, my fiend. It is possible th t it is one of the best thiiigs that 
has ever yet happened to you. fl mr.y bring you to your senses, 
and help to teach you the nature of this world, and of yourself, 
and of the great and good and terrible God who made you and 
governs you. 

And this study is the very first thing to which I shall endeavot 
to turn your aitention, in order to your receivinsf consolation. It 
is the want of knovitig this world, and yourself and God, which 
not merely adds to your present trouble, but actually makes uj) a 
Inrire part of it. [ woidd therefore most seriously and most warm 
ly ri^ommend this study to you, no matter how well and intimate- 
ly you may have before thought yourself acquinted with these 
things. No matter if you have before this, considered yourself a 
christian and even midea profession of chris'i inity. Yen are 
young, an 1 hnvo much to learn, and rnanv tliini;?^ to learn over 
and over again. Tlie things or sciences which 1 do so e^nnesdy 
advise you to learn at tin's irne, in order to the sootbinii of your 
breakiu'j heirt, do not require the opportunities of an academic 
or collegiate course. You can leuru them in your aillicled ani 



t20 «ON^OtATIO!^ (TP 

feeble conflition, and perh tps aine rapidly and to better pKpo=f« 
cc.iliaed to your bck tf)in la nny oti»r situitioii. hi uddi t a 
then, to what I hive S: id in the to .iier part of my book, to w.j ch 
I n )\v refer you for v3ve y thinir wriich you c^a ti'ply 'o yonisi.ir, f 
W )ald SiV to you, ia order to S'li. your sp^-cinl c se as h yonthtal 
SfKleier, look utojud upon tht* vvoil '. lO /ad discover 

no- whal IT :ppears t»; \a\ bul \vh n • • w ii, in ^j) its 

sail pes Had t'MiQr? .ind p^rs j)*' j tjsca.nges ;u}d re- 

Volu'«ioa?, in its riorii.j,.- hi ; ■ , ') ils j)y^'^ 'lad sornnv^;, 

and in ifSeaiptFae^ ^ <}i ,: j ' » i^laevriof eviL Afier you have 
done Hiis m=H^ iite.i iv jv, ai coijii'med il us long a^' your dis- 
ease and r'iC in- lacn-; . d psiiniu tliea pause and as'v you'solf 
wherhtr rhir vvMiid is in reality so fine, so valuable and excellent a 
thing, \hii in iaanorlal being, such as you are, should bre:ik his 
he^rt about i , even if it i? ka<'vva to iiiiu that he must leave it in 
a tew days, Yei, go further end siipposc that you are not called^ 
nor coiapelUd to leave it irt a few days, but pennirted to Jiccom- 
plish your most sanguine snd aspiring schemes, and have as much 
of the world at your command as your heart craves ; and settle 
the question whether it will satisfy the cravings of your undying, 
itnmortal and imperisiiable soul. To assist you in this business, 
which is so well calculated to bring resignation and consolation 
into your disappointed heart, call to your aid those of greater age. 
Inquire of your parents, and the old people, yea, the oldest to 
whom you have access, what their sentiments and feelings arecon-- 
cerning the world. And they will teM you, unless they speak, 
what their hearts know to be untrue, th tt it has never realized 
their expectations. That it has been continually disappointing 
them from year to year throughout their whole lives, no matter 
how successful they wf^re m laying hold of it and having it at 
their commmd. And if these disappointments have taught thena 
wisdom and virtue, and made them rich in valuable experience^ 
tboy will tell you that they have lon^ since come to the full and 
dv^cided conclu-ion, that this material world utterly fails to satis- 
fy the wants and desires of spirit. That they have clearly found 
its true pi ice to be, where it is placed, under your feet, and not in 
your mind. This, no doubt, your parents and those around you, 
reverend with age and wisdon), often told you, in the days of your 
flourishing* Bul you vveie not only illpivpared but entiiely un- 
prepared to listen to^ mnch less believe, their (^Id fasljioned lec- 
tures and dry talk. Perhaps at this time you are in a better con- 
dition, not only to listen, but to believe too. You are in the wiy 
to h ve a little experience as well as they. Experience is the 
best teach'^r. The .ruths whicli it declares and inculcates, you 
cannot deny or doubt» Experience^ is seeing and feeling for out* 



The afflicted. 121 

selves, and when we thus feel and endure and groan, we know 
for ourselves, [f all the gray headed, sober and wise ones of the 
country had gathered round you, and employed all their skill and 
most ardent zeal to teach and persuade and exhort you to beheve 
the above truth concerning the nature of this world, it would have 
been all in vain; they could have made no impression on you.~^ 
But, it is a vitally important matter to believe and know thistmth, 
and you are now in the way to come at this knowledge. You are 
in the way to know how to think about, and view and use this 
world, in this respect your condition is actually better than it was 
before, and this should not fail to ^[ive you consolation. 

After you have pursued this study long enough, and become bet- 
ter acquainted with the world, you will find out that every thing that 
promises here below, does not fullil its promise. That the clear 
sunshine of the morning of life, may, even lieforethe morning is 
past, be dseadfuUy darkened wit!) :hick clouds. That high hof)es 
and high heads may be brought low. That prosperity is not the 
uninierrupfed lot of mm. That the world is not in reality so fiir 
and beautiful >ind excellent as it appears to be. That it is not al- 
ways in l)loom and when it is, (here are among the flowers and 
blossoms, thorns and briers, pointing outwards. Jn slioit, that it 
is not a paradise, but a world laboring and groaning under the curse 
of its Creator. 

When you have advanced thus far in your thoughts and medita- 
tions and conclusions conc»;rning the world, =heii look around and 
sefi how others are treated; whit are their lots, rheir vicissitudes 
and changes, their success and disappointments, and their joys and 
sorrows. In doing this, I would specially recommend it to you, 
to bring within the compass of the view of your mind, all your 
fellow youths who hnve f'At shocks like yours, and were cut off, or 
are now laboring under disease. This done, turn your eyes inw;?rd 
and study yourself. See what l)etter you are ^han they. Ask 
yourself who you are? wliat your real character is? How you stand 
in comparison with others? whether there are any peculiar and in- 
trinsic qualities and excollencies within you, on account of which 
you sfionld be exempt from ^he calamities which fall upon the sons 
of men? what ricrht an<i claims you have uprm the great Ruler which 
be will disreg.nd :nd violate if he does not give you all your viay, 
and let you h;ive your whole heart's desire? Be very cautious how 
you come to the conclusion that you have some such claims, for 
okler and wiser persons would greatly doubt the correctness of such 
a concluson. Repeat and pursue the study. Enter into a dec p and 
thorough ex'^min ition of ycnnself, that you may know yourself, 
for this is the best kind f>f knowledge, and indisp- nsnbly ne- 
cessary to your receiving consolation, Because if you arc iguQ- 



y^ 



CONSOLATIONS OF 



rant of yourself^ you will think of yourself not according to trutiij 
not according to your real character: and will therefoie be expect^ 
ing things that do not belong to you. Whereas, if you are so hup* 
py as to arrive at a good degree of self knowledge, you will better 
know what are your merits and demerits, your good deserts and ill 
deserts. And if I mistake not you will find your good deserts to 
be very few, and your ill deserts very numerous. Your good de- 
serts from men may be many, but from God certainly not. You 
may deserve many more from men than you receive from them or 
are likely to receive. If you cannot get your deserts from them, 
you w^ll have a secret consolation, at least, that you are, in truth, 
better and more deserving than they think you to be. Though it 
would be a much crreiter consolation if, in this time of trial, they 
would give yo'i your dues. These however no man gets of his 
fellow men, whether he is deserving of little or more. From this 
consideration then, that you are treated as others, let a consolation 
come into youv breast. 

But again, if while your eyes are looking inwards you have a 
full, and unbiassed and correct view of all your passions, all the 
feelings of your mind that have existed and do now exist towards 
men and towards God, this may be an item of self knowledge whiclf 
m iy do you more good than all the miser's gold, or all the hon^/rs | 
of the w^orld in which you live. If this knowledge has its genu- 
ine good effect upon you, it will make you feel very humble if not 
Tery penitent. Altogether different from the manner in which 
you but now felt, when mounted aloft with your head fidl of earth- 
ly empty schemes. As you are thus looking in upon your passions, * jj 
and remembering what they have been, how often perturbed, and .i| 
violent and vengeful and ruinous to yourself and others; and re- 
membering too the deeds which they have often caused you to 
commit; but above all, remembering that both have always been 
^'naked and open'' to the eyes of the eternal and allseeing God; 
and that he has been continually looking upon them ever since 
you hnd passions and was the author of deeds, and that you are 
accountable to him for every improper feeling, as well as every 
idle word, you may indeed be greatly hiimbled and very penitent* 
Your consolation that will arise from this source will come from 
the facts, that — " before honor cometh humility," and befon^ bad 
passions and bad words and bad deeds are pardoned, men must 
repent of them. By this view of yo Tself and the thought that 
®(jod seeth you," you will be naturally led on to learn what you 
oan of this infinite and fearful being. 

You will find him to be from everlasting, self existent, indepen- 
dent, and possessed of all other perfections. The great One who 
m^do all things and reignetb ovei all, It is youi ctuty as an in,- 



tellisfent being to do wh^t yon can to learn and meditnfe upon, and 
adrniie and love ev^ry perfection of this augt^stone. Tins is that 
for wliicK he made you, and in which you ou^ht to be engaged 
both m tifne and in eternity. But always nccording U) the cir- 
cumst.'snces in which you are. Y^^u are now in yonr y^mih, and 
not only so but afflicted, and it is p<»ssible you may c\ it in* a short 
time. Your circumstances therefore, do not reqvirer f you to at- 
tempt to study, at this time, all his holy perff/c ioi'p, :n ihe man- 
ner in which a theological studeni does. You mny do what you 
can at this, but it will be your proper and speci;?} b?5siness to view 
him as he stands related to yourself. You are a being of feeling. 
You are capable of endming p?iin or enjoying happiness. You 
have already tasted some little of the latter and have endured and 
are now enduring much of the former. The great practical ques- 
tions with you then are, how will God order this for me as I advance 
in time nnd in the eternal world? what is hisnatu'e? how does he 
view me? will I be happy or miserable? ibis leads rne on to ask 
you my dear fellow mortal whether you are a christian or noi ? — 
These questions which you ask concerning God and yourself, 1 
feel myself warranted in snying I can answer. If you live and 
die a chrltian^ you will be happy, if you do not, you will be mis* 
erable. If you have evideuce that you are a chrisiian, my duty 
wi'h respect to you is done. The former parts of my book, to 
which [ nave referred you, contain all that I can say for you, whate- 
ver be the nature of your disease or the time when you must die. 
All that is said there you can easily appropriate to yourself. But 
if you are not a christian and know that you are not, much of it 
will not be applicable to ^ou, and my most serious and earnest 
and warm advice and exhortation, is to become one without de- 
lay. Now is the time of salvation, now is the day, now is the 
hour. If you are not a christian no consolations will come into 
your heart from the invisible world. And if you are at this time 
called to die, I can discover not one sinide consolatory considera- 
tion before you, but all that is disconsolate. When I attempt to 
Aook for cousolatiori for you, I am utterly foiled and look in vain. 
1 can see nothing before you but darkness, thick darkness and 
woes worse than diseases bring, woes so great that nothing but the 
p<^n of ins[)iration c in d scribe them. Y(^u will see the description 
in the Bible. The condition in which you are, \\v\i of affliction, 
is oup of the best to induce you to become a christian. And 
youth is the proper season, the spring time of religion as well as 
of life. Shoidd you listen to my advice and exhortation, and to 
he advice and exhortations of your friends, and to the voice of 
Providence, to the voice of Cod, and in tiuth and reality b(T(»mea 
christian, all the consolationsp the strong consolations that cluster 



124 gONSOLATlONS OF 

around the christiRn's heart, would ^gfather round yours and stim- 
ulate and encourage and support you living or dyiug. And if 
you are so far blessed as to do so and have the christian charac- 
ter, there is but one more thought which f shall attempt to bring 
to your consideration. And that is, that you are an immortal be- 
ing! and though but a few years old, have made sure of existence. 
This you h;)ve done m spite of all God's enemies and yours. In 
spite of all the diseases that do or can prey upon you, or all the 
enemies visible or invisible that do or can rise up against you. A 
hrippy immoraUty is the highest perfection of human nature. An 
unh .ppy immortality is the deepest imperfection. Immortality in 
God himself, unblessed would not be a perfection. Let this then, 
be to you the sum of all consolntion, and entirely resign you to 
whatever may be before you, good or bad health, life or death, that 
you are a plant of immortal growth, and though you but yester- 
day sprang up on earthly soil, and might grow in this soil a num- 
ber of years longer, and it may be have some strong desires to do 
so, yet there is another and better,"even a heavenly -'soil into which 
wht fi you are removed, sooner or later, yon will be transplanted, and 
flourish, and f ourish with a heavenly vigorous and immortal growh. 
A growth which canaot be interrupted or blasted. Whnt matter 
th n if yo ^ should h?* removed even in your youth, in the very 
m'>ralng of your days? You m^y be taken from many and great 
evils on the earth, and as you have made sure of a happy immor- 
tality, would certainly enter into the world of the blessed. If so, 
you w^ould never know what old age and decrepitude aie. You 
would be taken fiom them on earth, and with the rest in heaven 
wonld always be yt)ung, and bloom, and bloom in peipet'ial youth. 
Taken away in the bloom on earth, io the more beautiful, and glo- 
rious and everlasMng bloom of heaven. And now my dear young 
companion .in affliction, in this vale of tears, f;ir sister or dear 
brother, whatever be the severity, the duration, or termination of 
your disease, may it be your happy lot to get there at Ins*, and in- 
to the hands of our merciful God I now r^sijin von. — Farewell. 

Octolei 31st, 1829. 

FOR THE POOR, IN AFFLICTION. 

There are different kinds and vari;)'is de^irees of poverty. 
There is moral poverty and there is natural p >verty, and both 
have their m ^derate and extremq degree^. The poor for whom 
I write, are those wh ) labor under that kind of poverty whieh 
consists in their -^eing destitute, in a greater or less degree, of 
the actual comforts of life, foofl nnd rifjment and a shelter from 
th^ storm. Many are of this ciaiss, perhaps a majority of the 



fHE APFLICTE»* iia 

it u man raec. According to my general plan, it is not my pur- 
pcjse to inquire into ihe caus^js of their pt^verty. Ms b'.isiiie;-;* 
is not to account for the miseries of man, but to do what I can 
to alleviate them. A passing remark or two, however, I will 
make on the subject. 

B:>me are naturally destitute x)^ talents or abiUties to con- 
trive Oiher? are, by nature indolent, or in more familiar lan- 
guage, lazy. S^me are shackled and surrounded by circum- 
stances whi rh they are utterly unable to hreik through or sur- 
mount. The English nation and other monirchies give us ex- 
amples of the<^e, and ihey are also n it wanting nm :>n(j^ otir- 
gelves. Others are brought to poverty by their vices and 
crimes. 

lam far from entertaining the presumption that my little 
book will pass over to the transatlantic countries, I write for 
the American continent; an^.l specially for the United States of 
America; and shall be more happy and mure grateful than my 
tongue or my pen can express, if I am enabled to make it use- 
ful even to a few of the sous and daughters of affliction in my 
own country. Therefore I shall not attempt to shape it to suit 
the condition of those of foriegn lands, who groan under still 
more dreadful degrees of poverty than are presented to our wif^w 
around us. Indeed our own beloved country, of most happy 
government, vast extent, great salubrity of clime, and inex- 
haustible fertility of soil, even '••flowing with milk and honey,^' 
contains thousands and tens of thousands of those who present 
degrees of poverty deep and dreadful enough to awake and em- 
ploy all the energies of all its philanthropists Poverty a. one 
is a distressing calamity But when disease is added to it, the ca- 
lamity is niore than doubled. And this, my dear friend, is your 
unhappy condition; pinched by the cold and crue! band of pov- 
erty, and pained, and tortured, and weakened, and prostrated by 
disease. . 

Whatever be the caiase of your poverty you need consolation. 
If it is manifesrly your own fault, you need it more, but are not 
so deserving of it. Be thai as it may, 1 shall proceed to give 
yon ail I can through the means of pen, ink and paper. 

In y)ir afflictions your grand peculiarity is, that you are 
p 'or. Previous to this you have been siruggling along, often- 
ti.nes de-^^titute of even coarse f^od to nourish your body;of rai^ 
ment siiflicient to defend yo\i from the inclemencies of the sea- 
sons, and it may be, even to cover your nakedness; and without 
a shelter good enou'^h to turn ofl' the fl )wing rain, the driving 
wind and the pivuxing c old. This no doubt }0 i thought to be 
fiiiough of the wocisuf time, but now a disease either more or 

11 



126 eomoLAnom m 

less violent, as the case may be, has seized upon your unhappy 
bi>dy. Daep and desperate as your condition is, my fellow suf- 
ferer, you are not to suppose that there are no con olations for 
you. There may be not only a few but many. It is true the 
world is often called an unfriendly world, and perhaps with 
tot) much justness; but at the same time it is not right to slan- 
der it. It is the business of every person to be his own friend, 
in every possible honest way, and in whatever condition he may 
be. And to all such, so far as my observaiion and knowledge 
extend, the people of our nation arc disposed to be friendly. 
Many of the poor, may, without design, be overlooked, and 
Some may be unnoticed on account of their backwardness to 
make known their condition. The great cause why any are 
neglected is the impositions that are practised upon the benevo- 
lent and charitable by undeserving and vicious characters It 
has always been trueamtxng alt nations, and will most likely 
ever continue so, that tlie best way to help the poor is to teach 
and encourage them to help themselves, so long as they have 
health and strength to do it; and when these fail, to give them 
the things they need. But even when health and strength are 
gone, they should exhibit a deposition to hr^ip themselves if they 
could. The maxim — ''first help yourseif and then Til help 
you,^' is one of the best of maxims and will never wear out. 
And if it were ever correct and sound, since the vvf)rid In^^an, 
it is truly so in the United States of America You may con- 
clude from the drift of my observations, my friend, that my con- 
solations to you will be lean and empty, and like Jol.'s comfort- 
ers were to him. Be not mistaken, I think I have the best that 
the world affords. 

The first that I shall oflTer you, is, notwithstonduig you are 
sick and disciised, to do and contrive every thing i?i every pos- 
sible honest way, to get along without the help of oJhers. And 
when you can do this no longer, possess and manifest a strong 
disposition to do it if you c uld Let all around you, goodand 
bad persons, see plainly your strong determination to do so. 
Spend the last cent. Sell what few thitigs you have, to buy 
those which you cannot live without. Do not beg in an indi- 
rect manner by throwing out hints to those who are rich when 
they come in your way. If, of their own accord, they giv© 
you any thing, receive it with becoming expressi ms of thank- 
fulness and respect. At the same time show them by your 
words and actions that it is your firm resolution not to be de- 
pendent on others till you are absolutely driven to it. 

Let the doctor who visits you and witnessess your low, and 
defttitutCp and wretched condition, see this disposition ia you, 



THB APFLIOTEr*. 127 

This is not only the most respectable and honorable way to 
beg, but the most effectual. When the doctor and all your 
friends thus see and know your condition and disposition, they 
will teel moved for you, and consider you worthy of attention. 
Not only so, but they will say toothers who are rich, who have 
the good things of this world in their possession, "do you know 
how poor, and sick, and helpless, and wretched such a person 
is?" And "we can assure you that he or she is worthy. H« 
is doing every thing that is possible to hoid on and hold out and 
bear up, but it really does appear to us that it is impossible 
for him to do it much longer." "Humanity calls loudly for us to 
do something for him." If you do as I have directed above, 
3'ou will most likely obtain all the assistance your fellow mor* 
tals can give you, in the most honorable and best way. One 
good and kind neighbor will send you some delicate food suita- 
ble for the sick. Another will su[>ply you with the necessary 
cloihing. A third will see that you are properly nursed and 
kept clean. The doctor, or some fourth person will provide 
what medicine you need. They will see that your house does 
not leak upon you, nor admit the wind and cold, and they will 
keep it properly aired and properly warmed. Moreover, they 
will speak comfortable and encouraging words to you, and 
cheer and stimulate your heart as much as they can. 

All these things, we say they may do, but it is possible als« 
that they may do none of them. If they do, your consolations 
will neither be few nor small. If they do not. I leel it neces- 
sary to advise and caution you still further. I would caution 
you against having hard feelings towards them. There may be 
some good reason, unknown to you, why they act as they do> 
Whether there is or not, you must remember, with all humility, 
that all the claims you have, are the claims of suffering hu- 
manity; and it is with them to choose how, and when, and 
where they will bestow their charities. Again, I would most 
seri(jusly caution and advise you/o be strictly honest. When 
you see the wealth and abundance of others around you, and 
these things too very much exposed and easy to be taken hold 
©f by you, resist at all limes, most mightily, every temptation 
to do so, even in the slightest way. If you have every facility 
to take some trifle which dos not seem to be of much use to the 
owner, and to conceal the taking of it from him, 'Houch not, 
taste not, handle not." 

When you beg, beg right out, openly and aboveboard. And 
when you can no longer get along without doing it, it will be 
h >n(jrable to do so. li will l)e your duty. From the advice I 
have given to ehun U to the last extremity, you must not err by 



128 #'0?rSOLATIONS OF 

attempting to shun it too long. If is possible for you to ^osse^ 
too much independence of mind. If you carry i^his to an un- 
warrantable degree, it will be an improper and unjustifiable 
kind of pride. Pride and poverty are two of the most dread- 
ful evils that can happen to man. If you were originally a 
person of independent feelings, or if you were once wealthy, 
or even, as we say in common language, well (% you will be 
rery liable to have this bad kind of pride. The trial will be 
exceedingly great, to te reduced to the necessity of begging 
your bread. Sa great that you will be apt te suffer longer and 
more than you ought to suffer, bef ?re you will humbly ask your 
fellow mortals for help. You may even endanger your lite by 
doing without the ihmgs which are actually indispensable to 
support lite, and the want of them, and the proper medicince 
and medical advice, may render your diserse incurable, though ' 
y' ur life may not be brought to an immediate end. Therefore 
1, ris one of your warmest and best friends, would most ear- 
nestly beg you to beg before you come to that pc int. It is fit 
and proper to endure very considerable privations with the hope 
of getting along and getting ihrough, but not to such an extent 
as greatly to endanger your bodily health, or put your life in 
Jev.pardy. 

If it should be your lot to be reduced to the necessity of beg- 
ging, go first to your relations who are able, if you have any in 
reach. In them God has placed, by nature, an asylum 
for the poor, who are bone of their bone and flesh of their flesh. 
This asylum was in their bi^easts by nature, and is slill there, 
if neither they nor you have, by improper conduct between 
you, broken it down. The wails and strength, and excellence 
of this asylum consisted in their and your natural and mutual 
afiections; your love for one another. If neither they nor you 
jarred, or lulled, or deadened the>»e affections, they constitute 
nature's poor-house, and hers is the best. As we have said, if 
there is such a poor house wiihin your reach, by all means 
make your way to it. Go, or betaken to your relatic ns uho 
have something in their hands, or get them to come to you. If 
the understanding between you is good, they wi;l remember 
the words which say— '•Execute true judgment, and show mer- 
ey and compassion every man to his broiber," and they will do 
so. But if it is not good, you will do well to remember, that 
**a brother offended is harder to be won than a strong citv ; and 
their contentions are like the bars of a castle.'' In this case 
you may find it to be rue, ^'rhat ihere is a friend that sticke-h 
closer than a brother." And you wil *ee and fee! fhe propriety 
of the advice given in anoiher place, where it is said, »'Thm«^ 



TTtE APPLICTB». 1^^ 

OWtt friend, and thy father''s friend forsake not; neither go int® 
thy brother^s house in the day of thy calamity ; for better is a 
neighbor that is near than a brother far off." If j^ou have such 
a neighbor, who is your friend, or your father's friend, he is 
your next refuge ; to him 1 would advise you next to apply. 
Should you fail in this application, 1 know of no other course 
for you than to fall away upon the mercies of the community 
at large, to come upon the town, and yield up yourself to be 
treated and taken care of in whatever way they may find them- 
selves able and feel themselves disposed to do it. How un- 
speakably thankful, my friends, should yen and I be. that our 
fellow men are disposed to help, in any way whatever, thos«f 
who are in deep adversity. And that in our beloved America, 
it is not every body's business and thus nobody's business, but 
a matter of official concern. That moneys are raised by taxa- 
tion upon those who have the comforts of life in their hands, 
which moneys are to be spent for the relief of the poor and help- 
less. That these provisions are generally made and mak- 
ing in the country, by townships and counties, and that in our 
cities there are large and suitable poor houses.. And in both 
country and town, that there are officers appointed whose dut;^' 
it IS to fly to the crying necessities of suffering and langnish-- 
ing humanity. AH the forementioned resources having failed, 
you must make known your condition to them. Ic is in their 
power to help you where you are, if they think best. Or they 
may remove you to some private hc^use, or lastly take you to 
the public poor-house. If you have a choice you must men- 
tion it very modestly, remembering that ''beggars should not 
be choosers.*' In either case, wherever you may be kept, at 
home, at some private house, or in the j)ubiic poor-house, I would 
most w^armly recommend it to you to be very mild and kind to 
those into whose hands you fall. Endeavor, by every proper 
and laudable method, to gain the affections and sympathies and 
tender treatment of those who are appointed to attend up*^ 
you. Be very prudent lest you < ffend them. And if you sh'uild 
find their treatment to be so rough and unkind, as to he ivi tol- 
erable, plefid you I cause with tears in your eyes first wilh 
them, and if they do not hear you, then with the proper officers. 
Let every word you speak Le the truth, and beg wilh an honest 
heart, that they will have you faithfully and tenderly nursed 
(if you are so low as to be unable to nurse yourself,) and ihat 
th^^y will keep you clean. But I wish you distinctly to remen> 
ber, that this great and important business of keeping clean, 
lit s first and inainly with yourself. Had you a home of your 
mwn, and thai full of the comforts of life, and were ycu on« •£ 

11^ 



130 OdNSOIATIONS OV 

the richest of the inch, and attended not merely by one, but by 
a number of the dearest, tenderest and most afiectionate rela- 
tives, they could not keep 3'ou clean w ithout your eflforts to keep 
yourself so. 

A person whose body is diseased to .any great extent, una- 
voidably sends forth a morbid, loathsome scent. This is bad 
enough when every thing is done in the masi prompt and con- 
stant manner to remove it, by proper airing and changing of 
clothe^, but it is unspeakably worse where every species of filth 
is suffered by himself and others, to remain about him. It can 
but increase the di!<ease. From this you will see that it will 
be necessary tbr you to be very cautious when you are about 
to complain of others, that the blame is not mostly, if not en- 
tirely your own. If you are, however, upon good grounds, 
persuaded that in these great matters of nursing, giving medi- 
cine and keeping clean, the fault belongs to the nurses and 
other officers, and they all refuse to hear your intreaties for 
better attention, the doctors are that class of men to whom you 
will, in the next place, most easily have access, and whose bu- 
jsiness it is to listen to your tale of wo, and interfere on your 
behalf. Hut should even these appear cruel, and refuse to do 
or say any thing for you, the clergy are the next class, whose 
proper business it is to visit the poor and the sick, and to com- 
fort them both in word and deed. To them you may impartial- 
ly expose your condition. From some, or all of these different 
characters you may expect consolation. If it be your lot to be 
taken to the public poor house, this is the place to which others 
who are poor and sick are also taken. And for convenience 
in nursing, the sick are sometimes placed in the same room. 
This may be the case with you; and if so, you will have not 
only your own filth to contend with, but that of others. This 
wull indeed be a sore trial • and one of the sorest, if you have 
Kf en a person raised in the more decent wa^ , and do possess 
something of a correct and delicate taste. Should you find 
youVself lying in the midst of those as bad, and many of them 
worse, than yourself, and withal not disposed to keep clean, 
you will need a great degree of patience; and it will be of no 
small use to you to possess a great degree of prudence, and to 
have both in constant exercise. Tell them, calmly and delib- 
erately, the bad effects and consequences of their negligence. 
And persuade them most earnestly, uith a warm heart, with 
the heart of a fellow sufferer with themselves, if they have any 
regard whatever, to their own welfare and to th it c f ihose around 
them, to exert ali the remaining powers vvhi«h they have, to be 
l^atient. and mild, and to keep clean. A word iroai you, ot 



f5hom some other inmate and fellow sufferer, will have more 
weight thim from any other source. If one of you bo not heard, 
let as manv of you as can. j' in to plead and persuade, and 
your united efforts will likely have more irifl«ience than the 
crnbined exertions of the keeper of the house, the trustees or 
ofl-cers. the d(iCtors and the clergy. 

It is your incumbent duty to do what you can to instruct, and 
counsel, and encourage, and comfort your fellow sufferers 
around you. And they should do the same for you. You suf- 
fer together, and it may be, that you may be called to die, the 
one by the side of the other. There is every reason why you 
shjiiid be specially kind to one another. You should converse 
often together about this world and the next, and very particu- 
larly concerning the way to be happy in the world to come, 
seeing you are miserable here. If you are too ignorant to in- 
struct one another on the most important of all points, you 
may ask for some good minister to be sent to see you. You 
may be too bad and wicked to be disposed to pray, but you 
cannot be too ignorant to do it if you are disposed, and it is 
the duty of all persons to pray for pardon, and help, and salva- 
tion, and of ail, who is more needy than you? Therefore I say 
converse together, read to and for one another. If one cannot 
read let him listen to another that can. Read good books and 
especially the Bible. And pray often together in the uiannef 
in which a pious family worships, if you have bodily strength 
enough to do so. If not, pray in your own heart. Pray 
without ceasing Pray always, with all manner of prayer and 
supplication. If you do so, if you follow these my general di- 
rections, I have no doubt but you will receive more or less con 
solution m each of them. 

Thus my friend, my poor friend, I have viewed you in any 
and all of the different situations in v hich you will most likely 
be in your poverty and afflictions, and spoken a word or two of 
advice and consolation to you in each, but I shall not close till 
1 speak one or two more to you on thesulject. 

I have not yet referred you to the two firs^t parts of my book^ 
neither can I, till I start the greatest- of all questions, wheUieF 
you are, or not, 1:1 your poverty and aliiictions, a christian. 
They were written for christians, and a large part of those 
consolati^jns there brought to view, came from snurces from 
whi( h none but the christian can draw them. Therefore, if 
you are not a cbiistmn and do not become one, however much 
thev may console christians, 'hey cannot console you. Not a 
chrittiiaii! can it b*? juk! in :h»s christi »n land too! This land 
fuvor^U abovti uil luaub, A iuud ot li^^hi, and liberty, usx^ 



i8t CONSOLATIONS f^P 

plenty; of knowledge, of morality, and piety. Not a chrJstiant 

and in the h unble and humbling state of poverty, and besides 
laboring under heart-sol tening and heart-melting bodily pains 
and sorrows ! 

Is it true that a state of poverty and afflic^on has always 
been the best to cause persons to think of God in a practical 
manner — to make them feel, and most deeply too, their depen- 
dence on him and their great un^orihiness in his sight; to melt 
their hearts with genuine godly s^rrow^ for all their offences 
against him; and to engage their whole selves, body and soul, 
in devotion to him, and in his service? Is it true, that the poor 
•f this world who have no treasure heie, have always been 
most -easily induced to lay up treasures in Heaven? And you 
are poor and afflicted, but do not think of God in a practical 
manner, do not feel your dependence on him and your unwor- 
thiness in his sight, your heart is not melted wi»h sorrow for 
your offences against him, you are not at all engaged in devo- 
tion to him or in his service, you are very poor, you hnve n« 
treasure here, and yet are not induced to lay up "Ireasuies ia 
Heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt nor thievec 
break through and steal,-' 

Is it true that some of the most eminent ancient believers 
"wandered about in sheep skins and goat skins: being desti- 
tute, af^'cted, tormented, ( jf wh mi the world was not worthy :'') 
on account of their faith and the excellence of their characters? 
And you have not so much as a sheep skin or a goat skin to 
eover you, and have no faith! Are weak and feel le, have not 
strength enough to wander *'about in deserts and in mountainsj 
and in dens and caves of the earth,*' to seek a shelter, an earth- 
ly home, and \ et do not turn your thoughts to seek a l>etter 
home in the Heavens! Is it true that the Saviour himself 
was poor, that 'Hhe foxes had holes, and the birds of the air had 
nests; but the son of man had not where to lay hiJ« head?'* 
And is it also true, that 'though he rcas rich, yet i'or your sake 
he became poor, that you through his poverty might be rich?'* 
And you, destitute of earthly riches, do not partake of his 
heavenly riches, which he procured at such a cost to himself, 
and so freely offers to you a poor sinner indeed! Again, is it 
true that he chose the poor^. even the fi^hermen of Galilee, to 
be his disciples and followers? Did he mingle >Niih, and teach 
the poorest orders of men, even publicans and sinners, so that as 
a clear and decisive piooi that he was he that should ct>me. he 
sent \\ord to J »hn the baptis-, saying, "-and the poor have the 
goi^pel preached to them?" All this for the poor, the gospel 
©reached to them, the gospel preach^^d to ygu, one of the poor^^ 



THIS AFFLlCfK^. 138 

iff the poor, and you do not hear it, you disregard its "good ti- 
ditigs of great y)y V^ Tidinsrs v hich tell of a far country 
where there are no poor. Where all are rich, and rich with 
preci JUS and imperishable riches. You, poor as a skeleton, a 
very beggar, and do not desire to receive the news concerning^ 
these riches, and to accept a part of them. O my dear friend! 
is it true ''that not many wise men after the flesh, not many 
mighty, not many noble, are called," and do become christians? 
not many of the rich and great — not many of the kings and 
priices of the earth, the great generals, and mighty warriors 
and n >ble ones, "but God has chosen the poor of this world, 
rich in Aiih, and heirs of the kingdom which he has promised 
to (hem that love him," and you are one of the poor of the 
worlrl. aa 1 not rich in fai h nor an heir of the kingdom? Alas! 
alas! if ihis is your condition how lamentable and unhappy 1 
rich i;i Qiihuig, altogether pot»r. So sunk in poverty, that 
were it n .t for the charities and kindness of your teilow men, 
yo! vv<> lid be xposed to the howling winds, chilling frost and 
a'S)i;Ue starvation, and wiihal brought low w^th disease. — 
Tiiore is every reason why you should expect to die ere long. 
T ) dir.! and n ^t rich in faith nor an heir of the kingdom which 
G ;d has prvnnised to them that love him! Your soul not born 
ai(riiu! Not renewed nor adorned by the graces of Ood^s spirit! 
You not a new creature! The image of G.)d not restored upon 
your soul; possessing ni>no of the riches of fairh, and being in 
no wise entitled to be an heir of the kingdom of glory which is 
beyond death! » 

Y.ta no doubt have often rer^d, or heard the story, that *Hhere 
was a certain rich man, which was clothed in purple and fine 
lijien, and fared sumpiuo isly every day: and (here was a cer- 
tain beggar named Lvzarus, vvhr h vvas laid at his gate, full of 
sores, and desiring to be fed wiih the crumbs which fell from 
the rich man's table: moreover the dogs canje and licked his 
sores. And it came to pass that the beggar died, and was car- 
ried by the angels into Abraham's bosom: \\\e rich man a 'so 
died and was buried; ami in heli he lifted up his eyes, bein*r; in 
torments." T<\ke no ice, it is not said of the beggar ihat he 
died and in hp|| he lifted up his e\es. being in torments. This 
is said of the rich man, but it may be true also of a beggar. 
He may die, and in hell he may lift up his eyes, being in tor- 
nieurs. This h waver, as we have said, is not so common. 
The poor have ih ^ gospel pieacoed to ihem, and generally ih^y 
hear it, and beli<ne it, and obey it, and angels h ner round 
theur, and wh^n they die carry them into Ai^rah im's bos an. 
But you seem to be an exception. You neither hear; believe 



134 CONSOLATIONS 0^ 

Bor obey the gospel, are a beorgar, destitute of even crnmte, 
and at the point of death. O! O! my dear aflSicted, wretched 
feiiovv mortal, what thoughts, what feelings do you, can you 
have, about dying in this condition? Wretched here, and to 
be wretched in th^ world to come. Gv»ing from this deep pov- 
erty and these dreadful calamities and woes into the place of 
torments, wbere they **weep, and wail, and gnash their teeth." 
And this you will certainly do, if you have no treasure in Heav- 
en, are not rich in faith and an heir of the kingdom. If you have 
a few )'ears or months or even days yet allowed you, between 
this and death, cry, O cry, with the dying thief, 'unto Jesus, 
Lord remember me, now thou hast come into thy kingdom.' 
And as you cry and continue to cry, and beg and intreat that 
he would remember you, be you careful to bear in mind, that 
he did remember the dying, thief, "and say unto him^ verily, I 
say unto thee, to-day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.^' And 
that he heard the cry of every one that called upon him, poor 
widows, poor cripples, poor blind men, and all the sons of misery, 
and turned away none, not a single individual. He wrought 
miracles after miracles to cure their bodies, and to cure their 
souls, he forgave iheir sms and spoke peace unto them. He 
"remembered them in their low estate." He remembered the 
poor. As then so now ^'^he delivereth the poor in his affliction." 
*'The needy shall not always be forgotten, th - expectatiim of the 
poor shall not perish forever." "The Lord heareth the poor.'* 
^He will regard the prayer of the destitute, and not despise 
their prayer." "He setteth the poor on high from affliction." 
**He shall spare the poor and needy, and shall save the souls of 
the needy." All these important, and weighty, and rich, and 
precious truths call to mind, and let them sinK down into your 
mind with all their weight. Believe them with your whole 
soul. Believe in him "who though he was rich, yet for your 
sake he became poor, that you through his poverty might be 
rich." And then you can apply the two first parts of my book 
to yourself. And then too, your spirit will be rich, "rich in 
faith and an heir of the kingdom " Rich, even if your body 
should starve to death, or be wasted by c«>nsumption, or putrefi- 
ed with sores and should rot and fall fnjm your spint. Hav- 
ing this precious faith, and that holy hope which is the anchor 
of the christian's soul, it is no matter what becomes of your 
body. It matters not whether even the dogs come to lick your 
sores. If you do thas believe, and your spirit is thus rich, and 
you are even now called upon to die; for your cons. dation, y'»ur 
final cons olati :)n here below, I have only to p dnt you to the 
keggar Lazarus, As was hiie happy departure s© will yours be. 



gPHE AFPLtCTEP. 195 

Kind guardian angels will wait and watch around you, till 
your spirit, already rich with spiritual heavenly riches, shall 
leap out of its cla} tabernacle; then they will carry it to Abra- 
ham's bosofvij to the world where all is consolation. Where 
consolations grow on every twig, float upon all the waters, are 
wafted by every breeze, spoken hy every tongue, and felt to 
the; full 1 y every heart Where there are none poor, nor sick, 
nor disconsvjlate. O happy, happy change! thrice huppy! un- 
speakaMy happy! Dear son or daughter of poverty, God grant 
thht this change may be yours, when your spirit is called away 
from your weath^^r-beaten, way-worn, fraij, decaying and crum- 
biing body. That you may leave ail your poverty, and all 
your woes behif»d, — find none where yoo go, and enter the 
world which is full of consolation, 
Nov. 2ist^ lfeg9. 



FOR THE VICIOUS, IN AFFLICTION. 

The vicious are those who indulge in vice, who commit 
wickedness, who do not restrain their bad passions, l)ut grntify 
them at the expense of virtue, goodness and happiness. Who 
violate the wholesome laws of God and man. O thou high 
and holy One! righteous Gud! God of the righteous! whv>se 
providence doth also nfflict the vicious, be gracious now, be 
wirh me and enable me to speak a word to the sons, yea, and 
to the daughters of wickedness. Supply me wiih that word, 
that it may be a word of wisdom, and efficacious to teach, to 
warn, to terrify, and to persuade, to sooth and to comfort the 
self accusing conscience, the guilty soul! 

In addressing this part of mankind, 1 am well aware that, 
"in the si^ht of G >d ''there is none righteous, no, not one. 
There is none that doeth good, no, not one. They are all gone 
out of the way. For all have sinned, and come short of the 
glory of God.^' 

But all are not openly vicious and unmoral. Neither do all 
commit secret sins and approve of them and delight in them 
continually. There are a part of mankind , however small that 
part may he, which do a great deal more in restraining their 
bad passions, in vvuhho:ding themselves from all kinds and 
species of vice, and wickedness, and evil, than another part. 
And this lays a just and broad foundation for the division of 
the whole race into two classes, the virtuous and the yicious. 
i entertain no doubt, 1 am able to say, 1 know, that the viciouB 



188 y<JTIaOLATIONS OF 



is far, IS incomparably the larger class. Therefore, ahoiiH 
be rnabiuci to write any thing reaily useful, 1 may k>e >is^fin ta 
much the larger part of maukiiid, and that part loo whicli is 
much the more needy. 

The vices which the unhappy sons and daughters of vice 
commit and indulge in, are also numerous as well as various. 
The temptations to them are all j^roand, and at every step, and 
within them there are strong inchnations and propensities to 
give way and 3 ield to one, or many, oral! of th^sc temptitinns. 
**Oat of the heart proceed evil tht^ights. murders, ndulteries, 
fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies. Tii.jse are iho 
thiiigs which detile a man." All these are outward acts, ex- 
cept evil thoughts, and are declared, as well as evil thoughts, 
by him who *knew what was in man," i<nd co aid noi err, to 
proceed out of the heart. The infallible Saviour, who had all 
wisdom, in stating to the scribes and pharisees, to ihe ujiltitud^ 
and to his disciples, the things which detile a man, has here 
given us a summary of the vices A summ ury of all thc^so in- 
ternal and external things whirh deiile a mm, which c >nsiiiatd 
him a vicious character. 1 say a summary, and nothing more. 
M-iny things may be omitted in a ^um nary, yes, even innu- 
merable particulars. Internal thin^^s he includes u ider th« 
head of evil tlMUohts O.itot evii thoughts, evil desires arise; 
nil kinds and spet ies of evil desires from the leustto the greac- 
est, from the first tu the last, that the unhappy sons of men, 
sons nnd daughters t)f vice and wickedness, suffer to brood in 
their breasts, and to destroy their own peace, and to break out 
and blast their own reputati;)n, and despoil the honor and de- 
stroy the happiness of multitudes around them. Under this 
head he inchsdes everv unholy and unlawful carnal ieelmg, or 
feeling of 'nhe carnal mind." XU the unhallowed and forbid- 
den lusts of depraved human nature. 

Under the next head, in vvhi;:h he enumerates a few of the 
most prominent and atrocious, and ilaorrant. and heaven daring 
vices, out of the thousands he includes all outward acts and 
Words, the tendency, and effect and consequences of which, are 
vinous and evil, and ruin )u» to th'j persms who are the authors 
of them, and to ih *ir fellow mortals around. Every sitigle act 
and w rd of (he kind, from the most trivial deed and the m )st 
insirrnfleant idle word to the sh^ddiig of the blood of th«:nr 
fol'ow men. who were made in the image of their Creator, and 
to 'he awfil blasphemy of this same great Creator of all. As 
we have hinted above, the vi<»es are thousands in numner Tj 
en rnerate them all, in all ih-'ic sha.x^s a jd f>rr\^, wirh all th^nr 
rui*iou6 beariiij^s^ would entirely surpass ihe limits and desi^fl\ 



1 



THE AFFLICTED. ITit 

^f my present undertaking. In different nations different vicei? 
prevail, according to the fiicilities to commit them, and the temp^ 
tations to them; though far the larger part, are common to all na- 
tions, especially to all that are civilized. Some of those which 
pollute, and perturb our beloved America, which distain her sons 
and some of her daughters, which despoil her of her glory ,^ — tear 
tip the foundations of her good society, -^nd rob her of her peace, I 
will now mention, observing something hke the order in which the 
sons and daughters of vice generally move on in them. 

In these movements their most common course is from less to 
greater ones; and the most common time of life to commence 
the course, is in youth, though there are many exceptions. They 
generally begin with the use of idle, and low, and obscene, and 
profane words. If they are not born associates of low and vicious 
companions, the use of such words very naturally lead them to 
associate with companions of this order. And as the vices have 
their associates, as well as mankind, and are linked together like 
a chain, they proceed on from the use of foul and profane words, 
to every species of falsehood and lying; to all which their asso 
ciates often tempt them. And when they gather together in their 
associations, the next step is to drink, perhaps only a little strong 
drink, in company, to cheer each other's spirits. Then to gamble 
for a few hours. At the next meeting they drink larger draughts, 
and gambl'^ more extensively, and longer. Thus on till they 
drink so much as to be intoxicated, (viz.) drunk; and from time to 
time drunker, and drunker, till they become confirmed drunkards. 
This vice is generally allowed to be the most extensively practised, 
and the most ruinous and fatal of all others that prevail in Ameri- 
ca. Its tendency, if it be not checked, is not only to all kinds of 
misery, and to the utter ruin of thousands and millions of the 
bodies and souls of men, but to unpeople the nation. 

I forbear, however, to make any further remarks on it in this 
place, and will pursue the vicious some further in their course. 
From the tippling shop, or grog shop, or tavern, or coflee house, 
which are also too commonly gambling houses; they next find 
their way, under covert of the darkness of the night, to '^her 
house whose house inclineth unto death, and her paths unto the 
dead. Whose house is the way to hell, going down to the cham- 
bers of death.'' I mean the house of sexual debauchery. And 
here, alas! alas! they are joined in their course of vice by the 
other sex, the female sex, the fair sex, The scenes of debauchery, 
and lying, and riot, and stealing, and rohhincf from one another, 
and fightnig, and stabbing, and iiiurder, which take place at such 
houses, I shall not attempt to describe. Those who wish to con- 
ceive of them in some degree according to the extent of tlieir 

13 



138 CONSOLATIONS QF 

enormities and horrors, may think of them as places at which ail 
the unhallowed, violent and raging passions of the human heart 
are let out. At which there is no amiable blush of chastity and 
delicacy, but where all the fires of corrupt human souls are kin 
died, and flame without the least moral restraint, and where all 
the dreadful, and filthy, and covetous, and vengeful lusts of sordid 
human bodies meet, with no check, but boil up and overflow, like 
the boilings and overflowings of a caldron filled with corruption. 
Here also some of the most loathsome and fatal diseases are 
caught, and the unhappy persons who catch them, sink into the 
deepest degradation and misery. When confined to their beds 
by these diseases they are very righteously shunned by all the vir- 
tuous and decent, and often sufier more than tongue or pen can 
express. Not unfrequently it becomes the very unpleasant duty 
of the overseers of the poor to take them to the public poot house. 
Their treatment cannot reasonably be expected to be any other 
than that which is rough and untender. Who that is virtuous can 
have a heart to wait on such objects with affection and tenderness? 
If there is a human being among all the sons and daughters of 
misery, that deserves to be neglected and ill treated, such a char- 
acter does. And if, in this condition, they repent of all their 
wickedness, those who have the care of them do not, nor can they 
readily believe their repentance to be true and real. At the same 
time this is the best thing they can do. And if they cannot con- 
vince men of the truth and reality of their repentance, God will 
see it and know it to be true, and will have mercy on them if men 
do not. 

But it is more common for them to be taken by the constable or 
sheriff from these resorts of vice, and iniquity,andcrime,to the dun- 
geon of the public jail, and there to be loaded with irons and "fed 
upon the bread and water of affliction," nntil the day of their trial, in 
the public court house, before the appointed judges and twelve hon- 
est jurymen of their country. And here, inthepresenceof the whole 
court and all the citizens who may come in to hear the account 
of their enormous crimes, they are generally found guilty and 
condemned, and one of the judges passes the solemn sentence of 
their condemnation upon them. They are found guilty and con- 
demned and sentenced according to their crimes, some to the pen- 
itentiary, the hateful prison of criminals, to labor for a term of 
years, or for their life time, shut up from all the cheerful ways of 
men, in dreary and servile and toilsome confinement. Others are 
sentenced to be taken back to the jail from which they were brought 
out, and there to be kept so many days till the appointed day to 
be hung, and then to be brought out dressed in grave clothes, sur- 
iminded by a guard of armed men, placed in a cart, back foremost, 



THE AFFLICTED. I3Q 

with a rope round their necks, and their cofRn by their side, and 
thus to be driven to the gallows erected in a conspicuous place, 
and there in the presence of thousands and ten thousands of their 
fellow men to be hung, according to the sentence of the judge, 
"till you are dead, dead, dead, and God have mercy on your soul.^' 
This is the career very frequently run by the vicious, but in pursu- 
ing it, the richer and gayer, generally go by the way of the theatre. 
The poorer make lying, theft, forgery, robbery and murder, their 
more special business. This however is far from being the only 
course in which the vicious are to be found. They are among 
all classes of mankind. And they generally strive to conceal their 
vices. In this strife many are successful, and though they prac- 
tice some of the most dreadful, yet escape the eyes of mankind^ 
and pass among men for virtuous, decent and worthy charac- 
ters. Not only so, but there are many vices and these too very 
much practiced, which though they can be discovered and well 
known, yet are exceedingly difficult, if not impossible to be seiz- 
ed and punished by the arm of human law. From these causes^ 
together with the strong propensities of mankind to evil, those ar« 
very nnm-^rous who practice vice at their own homes, in the pri- 
vate family circle; so that society is annoyed and disturbed both in 
private and public by the vicious; those immoral and heedless mon- 
sters of our race who instead of striving to better the condition of 
mankind are emploved in making it worse. 

And you, my afflicted fellow mortal, are one of this class of 
mankind, are a son or a daughter of vice. Some one or more of 
all the vices you have given way to and practised, in some or many 
of all their forms. You have gone on, heedless of the laws of 
God and man, regardless of the peace and happiness of your fel» 
low beings, and of yofjr owa pe^ice and happiness, and what is 
worse, of the honor and glory of God. Perhaps you have pursu- 
ed this course a length of time, it m^iy be a number of years, and 
that you have gone to great, and enormous, and frightful lengths in 
sin and wickedness and crime. Tt is possible you may have con- 
cealed your vices, not only from the eyes of the public officers, so 
as to hive escaped detection, but even from the eyes of the sober 
and virtuous part of mankind. So that your sins are secret sins, 
or at least known to but few, and you practicing them as ever. Or 
it may be that you have pushed them to such a length that you 
have been discovered by the keen and watchful eye of the public 
guardians, and seized by the strong arm of justice; and that you 
are at this time in jail or in the penitentiary . 

Be that as it may, by the just appointment of Providence you 
are overtaken by a disease of some kind or another, of more or 
*ese violencer It may be so slight as to allow you strength still t^ 



140 C0X30LATI0!VS OF 

go on in the practice of that vice in which your corfiipt hcjart takea 
delight. If so, you may need more consolation than you think 
you do. A disease has laid hold upon you, and the more you 
indulge in vice the stronger and stronger will its hold Ix.'cometill 
it may bring you to your bed, if not to your grave. If this is 
5'our case, if you are afflicted with disease and going on thus in vice 
and wickedness, my first and last, my main and only consolation 
which I shall offer you, is to tell you to stop. It is to give you 
the faithful and warm advice of a true friend. It is to give you' 
warning in time, and to urge you by all that is sacred and good, 
and all that is terrible, by every consideration that heaven and 
earth, yea, and hell itself present to view, to stop in your unholy 
and mad career. By the claims which society has upon you, by a 
sense of duty to others, to yourself and to the great and fearful 
God who made you and who cannot look upon sin with allowance. 
By all tliese weighty considerations I would call upon you to cease 
from vice if you would have consolation in your afflictions. By 
the stings of your own conscience I would urge you to stop.— 
By the danger of having the finger of scorn and contempt pointed 
at you on the right hand and on the left. By the terrors and pen- 
alties of human law, and by the more awful terrors and penalties of 
the good and holy and inflexible law of the eternal God, who is all 
knowing to know and almighty to execute. By your own love of 
yourself as an intelligent and moral being. By the charms whieh 
a good name has, a good reputation, a good character. But if 
these considerations, and this love of character, have no weight 
with you, you are a being of feeling, consider what the disens^e 
that has settled upon you has already done, is now doing and 
threatens to do, if you do not stop from your vicious course and 
bestir yourself to cheek and remove it. It is your disease which 
hixS introduced me to you, and it is my great object to offer you 
consolation. Your case differs from all the foregoing. Your dis- 
ease has been either brought on or increased by your own criminal 
indulgence m vice. It is a matter then, in a great measure, of 
your own choice and of your own procuring, and if you have not, 
by too long and too frequent indulgence, settled and riveted it too 
deep in your constitution, it may still be subject to your own 
choice and disposal. It may depend upon your indulgence in vice 
or your ceasing from it. The way that I have attempted to con- 
sole the afflicted is to advise them to use suitable and promising 
means for restoration, and to indulge a hope that they will get we^l, 
or it has been to sooth them as much as possible under their afflic- 
tions. With you then my course is plain and easy to be discover- 
ed. You have only to remove the cause of your disease and thea 
you will get well. And this cause you can come at^ it is within 



Tta^ AFFLICTED* Hf^, 

f6m r^acli and within your power, if (as we have said,) you have 
not gone loo far Etnd given the disorder too deep a root. If you 
would be consoled then, and so effectually consoled as to need no 
more consolation, on the subject, stop, stop 1 say, and get well. — 
Never indulge again, not one single time in vice from this mo-- 
ment forwards. Slop, O stop! before the disease stops you. If 
you gather up resolution and receive this my great and good 
consolation and get well, it will be unnecessary for me to refer 
you to the two first parts of my book. You would have no need 
to read them, except as a well person may read them. Should you 
take my advice, and act upon it from this time fori h, so as to re- 
move your disease, you will by thus removing it, remove two at 
once, the moral disease which you have chosen to fix upon your 
character, which is, of the two, by far the worse, and the natural, 
disease in your body. But in spite of the powerful and repeated 
rebukes of your own conscience, and all the high and weighty 
claims and considerations which 1, and all your friends, togetheu 
with your doctor, haveurgedupon you, you hear not, you heed not, 
until at length you are brought down by the disease and stopped, 
effectually stopped, confined to your room and to your bed, flat 
upon your back, and brought so not only by disease, but by a dis- 
ease arising out of vice, which makes it the more hateful, and de- 
test ;ible, and loathsome. 

Mt)st richly you now deserve to be forsaken by all in whom there 
is the least spark of decency and virtue. Especially by all those 
who have sow^armly, so earnestly, so repeatedly and so long cau- 
lioned and warned you against the danger of cfetting into the con- 
dition into which you have now fcillen. You fully deserve to be 
abandoned, and given up by all beings, visible and invisible, hu- 
man, angelic, and divine, who are capable of ministering to your 
relief and comfort. But strange to tell, this is not yet the case. 
There are a fi^w persons, among whom is your doctor, who do not 
give you up. Persons who possess an uncommon decree of hu- 
manity, whom your great and crying wickedness, and deep and 
dreadful pollution, have not yet driven from you. Whose hearts 
are still anxious and strongly desirous to relieve and rescue you if 
possible. And all this not from any love which they have to yout 
character, but the high concern which they have for your nature. 
Even the invisible holy angels are willing and ready to do you 
good. Ye ', even God hnnself ha« not yet cast you off tb utter 
despair and endless wo, but is now, affer all your heaven-daring 
crimes and unspeakable ingratitude towards him, wailing to be 
gracious, willing to forgive and receive you. And to prove this, 
he has commissioned me, and is now sending me, the writer of 
the consolations of the alHictod, the friend of the afflicted, the 

12^ 



142 CONSOLATIONS OP 

friend of the vicioug, (so long as he liimself will be their fViend,) 
to visit you wiiJi counsels of mercy, with offei's of pardon and 
life; sending me with all the consolations which can consistently 
be oftered to a person in your wretched condition. 1 am there- 
fore come into this your unhappy sick room, like your physician, 
not to catch your disease, but to cure it. I am come, sent by the 
great God who created us both, whose goodness has ever het^n 
around us, and wJiose power o\er us. I am come on an errand 
of love and pity to you, a poor miserable creature, and am perhaps, 
the last "messenger of grace" that will ever be sent to yon a dy- 
ing mortal, with offers of pardon and life, with strong consola- 
tions and comforts. 1 therefore stand this day over you, by your 
led side, and in the name, and by the authority of the God of 
mercy and salvation, most solemnly, most earnestly, most warmly^ 
and most affectionately address you. Holy angels, upon the wing, 
with deepest concern surround me, and God himself looks on, 
while 1 oiler to your di-consolate spirit, these great offers of con- 
solation and peace,and make, perhaps, the lastappealto your con- 
science, and for your decision, that will ever be made to you this 
side the eternal woild. No doubt devils cling to you with anxiety 
greater th m human language can express, lest now, after all your 
past life of vice and sin, you should repent of the same and es- 
cape from their ranks, disown them for ever, and resolve eternal 
hate and war against thein, and rejoice with joy unspeakable, to 
be allowed at this late hour, to join the rank of the decent, the 
virtuous and the godly. To be instrumental in effecting this, ii^ 
the great object of my errand. I come to bring you consolations, 
but your spirit is incapable of receiving these happy and cheering 
consolations which I bring, because you have ever resorted to vi- 
cious indulgences for consolations in past life, and these that I 
have are virtuous, and have no connection with vice. You seo^ 
your condi. ion then, here you lie confined to your back by disease, 
nnable to rise, and .unable to resort to your former vicious indul- 
gences, so as thereby to gain even temporary consolation. Dis* 
consolate! disconsolate are you indeed! Low and feeble, and to 
all appearance gone beyond the hope of obtaining any consolations 
whatever, unless you accept these holy c imforts which lam per- 
aaitted and commissioned to bring you! You have no rich treas-^ 
ure of sacred, holy knowledse, and your passions are all out of 
<arder; peace is gone, and hope is almost on the wing to take its 
flight. Darkness and despair you now discover to be gathering 
round you, and threatening to overwhelm you. Your disease ra- 
|es with greater and greater violence, and manifestly threatens soon 
to close your career of vice, and at the same time your day of 
jrace. Of your rapid decline you are very eensibk. You sye 



TttB APPLICTEB. ft# 

plainly that there must be a change for the better fn a very short 
time, or you mast die. The world with all its scenes falls back 
out of your si|xht. The business, and pleasures, and allurementflf 
of it cannot be brought before you so as to attract your attention, 
and beguile your pains and give you quieting comfort. Your 
companions in vice are poor comforters now. They are ex- 
perienced in nothing but sensuality and sin; their thoughts have 
all been of this world, as well as their desire^ and lusts. "Like 
brutes they live." Like brutes they are. Their thoughts hav« 
all been confined to the surface of the earth. They have nol 
looked beyond the stars. They have built too low. And as they 
have done, so did you. When they come into your presence and 
attempt to comfort you, they talk of llie things of this world, but 
this world is out of your view. They say nothing about a future 
state of existence. Nothing about immortality and eternal hap- 
piness. They say to you "be c:)ura^eous, act the man, and if 
you have to die, die like a man." By this they mean that you 
should be courageous, and act the brute, and die like the brute. 
Of all comforts, these to a dying person, are the most comfortless. 
To present the world to him when he is about leaving it, and not to 
say a word about whither he is going, but to cast as much darkness 
around him as possible. Thus you have found them in their late 
visits toryou. They did you no good; they gave you no comfort, 
but bewildered yoni mind, and added, greatly added, to your per- 
plexities and pains. They were literally ministers of darkness 
and not of ligh*. They do not pretend to have any light, and ac- 
tually ha\enone. And alis! thus it is with yourself. "It is ap- 
pointed unto all men once to die." In this truth all agree, and 
you seem to have come to the very borders of this most solemn and 
trying change. You look forward in expectation of this change, 
as being but a few days, and it m »y be, only a few hours before 
you. Neither the eyes of your body or your mind are yet out, 
but they are both turned away from tlie world. -The world is now 
«omple^ely behind you, you cannot see it. Nevertheless your eyes 
unavoidably look, and look forward ( is they can look no other 
way) and strive to see. Your spirit is moved, and stirred, and 
works within you. Tlioughts must rise, will rise, do rise, and re- 
volve in your breast. As you feel yourself to have come to the 
end of your life on the earth, and the time to be at hand whea 
your breath must stop, and your eyes go out, your spirit anxiously 
asks, inevitably and urgently asks a few of the greaiest of all 
question-. — fs tfiere anothnr world? sh 11 \ liveagaiii? am ! im- 
mortal? if I live a^ain will I be happy? Though there have hern 
a few havd-henr^ed, s*ony-hearted j)ersons in diflferent naps, who 
at the hour of death citlier did aot feel cinxious about these grca.l 



l44 ^isrsdLATiONg or 

questions, or pretended not to, yet after all your p^st negTect, an2t 
it may be spuming of them, your spirit finds it to be more than it 
ean do to neglect and spurn them now. It exclaims with the in- 
tense and exquisite feelings of a departing spirit. — Whither, 
whither, O whitlier am Igoino? Your thoughts fly like lightning. 
Am 1 going into the deep, dark abyss of annihilation, of nothing, 
lio longer to exist, but to cc^me to "a perpetual end?" You see 
am! feel that to believe this, will be doing the greatest possible 
Ti(»lence to yonr spirit's nature; thut it is utterly repugnant to its 
constitution. You take a r ^pid view of a human soul as com- 
pared to all other beings of the earth. You directly and manifest- 
ly see its transcendent superiority. You heliold it a great and 
shining liglit in tiie midst of this material 1 world, having surpas- || 
sring brightness and glory, and say can it be that this light was n 
lighted up to burn but for a d ?y, and then go out for ever? Your 
own spirit replies with emphasis, no. From the large amount of 
knowledge v^hich a humnn spirit can obtain during its short race 
on earth — from its exquisite sensibilities, its insatiable love of 
life, and its boundless desires^ not possible to be gratified here, you 
hastily come to the conclusion that you will indeed live aj^ain. 
F«om the broad and universal f ct, ihat all n'«tions ha\e, in all 
ages, no matter how gross their ignorance, nor how- deep their deg- 
radation, either with or without revel Uion, thought, and felt, and 
believed that they would live again, though there have been some 
exceptions of individuals, yet i/ow cannot in this most serious and 
trying moment, possess such obstinate and monstrous hardihood. 
T )ur spirit finds itself unable to doubt, and feels itself constrain- 
ed to join with the great m sjority of your race in believing that 
you will hve csgain. And as you conclude that you will live again,, 
you cannot see any reason why you s!iould not al rays live^ and 
fee immortal. You havin«y thus rapidly, but as reasonably as ra- 
pidly, settled tliese previous and minor question^?, there remains 
one moe, which is the last and greatest of all, for your mind to 
come to rest upon — In living for ever shall I he happy? O ques- 
tion! q jestion! greatest of all indeed! what, will immortality be 
without happiness? Such is the unspeakable solicitude of your 
spirit in asking this question, thnt it writhes within you while you 
do it. In the transitory earthly life which you hive p^st, though 
there is but little happiness here below, yet you have, even in your 
vicious career, foimd enough to enable you to learn the diflerence 
between happiness and misery, and your spirit lon^s and p^nts to 
know what are its prospects for hoppiness in the eternil world. 
However ignorant you may uave li^^ed, your life has been sf>ent in 
a christian land, and it is hardly poss'ble for you to be so ig?iorant 
'?.'s to know nothing of the christian religion; more likely you have 



THE Avnt^m. 145 

hean well instructed in it. It is the only feligion known to man 
which can enable his dying spirit to know with any certainty, 
whether it will be happy in the eternal world or not. But this re^ 
ligion you have not only turned away from, but despised and re- 
jected, and gone far m the way of folly, and vice, and sin, and un° 
holiness. This religion, throughout, teaches virtue and not vice, 
and the sum of it is, without purity of character no person shall 
be happy in the eternal world.— "Without holiness no man shall 
SEE^THE Lord." "The ptthe in heart shall see God." 

This is the great truth of the Bible, anrl without the belief and 
practice of it, the Bible is of no use. Behoved and practiced, the 
Bible is of the highest use. At this juncture, at this most solemn^ 
soul-trying moment, you look back over your past life. All the 
scenes of it are fresh in your memory, and present to your view. 
A gloomy, dark picture— black "as the tents of Kedar" — dark as 
mid-night, and terrible to look back upon. Such is the picture 
you have drawn of yourself, such the history you have furnished, 
and you cannot now help it. Over the past, none have power j 
but the past may have great power over you, and actually has, as 
you now look back upon it. The whole course of your conduct 
towards your parents, your brothers and sisters, and all your good 
and kind, and virtuous friends, rises up before you and disturbs 
your soul. You now exclaim with the deepest feeling, and the 
most pungent grief, O my mother! my mother! my tender, and af- 
fectionate, and pious molher ! her kind care over the moments 
of my childhood, her sweet kisses and caresses, and in riper years 
her gentle teachings and faithful warnings, all unfelt and unheed- 
ed by me! O wretch, wretch, wretch that 1 am! All her soft and 
gentle deahngs, and soothing, and restraining words, and looks^ 
and the darts of pain too, which my vicious course caused to 
pierce her tender heart, are now become pointed dnsruers in my 
own ungrateful, unfeeling^, unholy nnd guilty sonl! My father too, 
was kind, was faithful to teach, and counsel, and guidp, a''»d warn, 
and threaten, and rebuke, and chastise, but I took it all for unkind- 
ness, and despised every thing he could say or do for me. 1 es- 
teemed his counsels folly, his warnings no better, and his correc- 
tions tyranny. My dear bro+hers and sisters that are now alive, caa 
each say, "I told you so," "I told you, you would come to this." It 
is true they did affectionately caution me, and foretell my ruin, 
and repeat their cautions and predictions, and pursue me as thougk 
they could not, and would not give me up. Their words and ex- 
ertions are now like barbed arrows in my heart. My fiiends were 
numerous; many of them moral, and virtuous, and respectable; 
and many, f lelieve, truly rrlioious. They ^^'^ all witnesses 
against me this day; and especially the faithful ministers of the 



146 CONSOLATIONS 01? 

gospel whom I sometimes heard, and might have listened to at all 
times, hut I refused. 1 now see that all these were in earnest. — 
That they believed what they said and taught. — That they felt it 
too. — That they felt for me. — I'hat they believed I was immortal. 
That they loved me And in justice to them, I must acknowledge, 
that they all said that God too, was kind, and waited to be gra- 
cious, was willing to forgive and receive me, and make me his son, 
and be to me a father, better than ail fathers or friends besides. 
Abundant proof have they all, and God too by his providence, 
given, of their and his kind"©© and goodnes to me. Yea some of 
you are now mtinifesting your continued, and unwearied, and un- 
common kindness, and condescension, and affection. Your kind- 
ness is great beyond me- sure and beyond expression. Here you 
are now around me ?. most vile, and diseased, and loathsome, and 
sinful, and ill deserving wretcli. And there too, stands the kind 
doctor who is doing all he can for me. And even here, over me, 
stfnds the writer of the consolations of the atflicted, the great 
friend of the afflicted, who is devoted to do them good and console 
them, if th^y are wirhin the reach of consolation. You, dear sir, 
dear friend, have followed me in my career with your counsels, 
and warnings, and threat enings, and entreaties. But as to all 
others, so to y«>u, my ear was deaf, my heart was hard; I neither 
heard nor felt; T put you off. To you the whole catalogue of my 
crimes is known. lam, in truth, constrained to say that you 
have been my continual and faitliful monitor. The remembrance 
€)f my cold-hearted, proud-hearted, stern rejection of you, noW 
causes my conscience to sting me like an adder within my soul. 
The gospel too, did warn, but I trampled it under my feet. Ah ! 
this was the height of my guilt. This stings the keenest and 
deepest of all. The gospel! a revelation of God's will to man, 
to enable him safely to sbipe his course here below, and happily 
to enter into that eternal world, on to the very borders of which, to 
all human appearance, I have now come. Yes, the eternal world 
just before tne, and I neither safe nor happy. What shall I do? 
what shall fdo? Ofriend of the afflicted and of the dying, speak 
and say! for my unhappy soul is spotted, and stained, and covered 
with guilt and polution, and overwhelmed wi^h soitow and grief, 
and feels like sinking into hopeless despair, even before I die. 

No wonder, no wonder my feeble dying fellow creature, that 
your spirit should now be distressed and in anguish, since you 
have fought your wicked way against all these friends, and God 
himself, and his gospel. You now, in this trying hour, feel the 
need of consolation whether you deserve it or not. It is possible 
you may b<^ gone beyond the re<tch of consolation, and may now 
be enveloped in th^ immovable glooms of despaii. It is out my 



THE AFFLICTEB^ 147 

power to tell; indeed it may be known to none but God himself. 
I hope you are not, and feel myself strongly urged, yea, bound by 
the sacredness of my undertaking, and by my duty, not to give 
over my attempts to console you, as long as you have strength and 
life enough to think, and hear, and attend. But all I can do for 
you in this extremity of your case, is, in the name, and by the 
warrant of God Almighty, once more, even now again, to offer 
you pardon and hfe. Accept these and your spirit will be con- 
soled. Believe the gospel ; repent of all your crying sins. Look 
away, in haste, to him who "died the just for the unjust." Era- 
brace the Saviour. Embrace God's whole plan of salvation, and 
you may, even in a few moments, rejoice in hope, and yourconso-r 
lations may abound by Christ; and, vile as you may have been, 
if your spirit be at this time called away, it may go rejoicing and 
triuuiphing in God. Your condition will not now permit me to 
speak to you at any length, but for your encouragement I will just 
refer you to three cases given in the scriptures. The first is the 
prodigal son. Bear in mind to what lengths he went, in vice, and 
sin, and iniquity; and remember how graciously and affectionately 
he was received when he returned. Again, think of the exceed- 
ing and raging madness arid wickedness of Saul, and of his sud- 
den and happy conversion. But last and most of all, think of the 
dying thief who was crucified with his Saviour, and who even af- 
ter he was, for his great crimes, nailed to the rugged wood, railed 
upon his Saviour, then dying for him a most guilty wretch. Think! 
O think! I say, of this unequally great sinner, — this hardened, 
hardened n^onster, who in his very last moments, in his dying ag- 
onies, reviled his unspeakably compassionate Saviour who hnng by 
his side; but suddenly stopped, and with a penitential melting 
heart, cried out — "Lord remember me when thou comest into thy 
kingdom." Let the reply which the insulted and abused Saviour 
immediately gave him, encourage, and support, and console your 
tsinking spirit — "To-day shalt thou be with me in Paradise." — 
This is all I can do for you, to tell you these things, and to 
recommend them unto you. To persuade and exhort you to take 
this course, this last, this only resort to obtain consolation. But 
if I am done speaking to you, I can attempt to speak to God, and 
this attempt I will now make. 

O Lord God Almighty ! Creator of the heavens and of the earth, 
great God, with whom is all power to make worlds and to govern 
them, to make the universe out of nothing, ^nd to uphold it, and 
and control it — all power to make the soul of man and his body — 
to give life, and to take life — to redeem the soul and to raise the 
body again from the dust — all power to comfort and console the 
disconsolate spirit of man! Tliy human creature that lies upon 



148 CO^*SOLATIONS OF 

this bed, sinful, and diseased, and disconsolate, needs consolation, 
and greater, and more immediate, and more effectual consolation, 
than I or any of our fellow creatures, or any of thy creatures can 
give; 1 therefore come unto thee, the great source and fountain 
of all consolation, in whom is inexhaustible fullness of happiness 
and peace, who canst by one act of thine, or by one single word, 
pardon and console, deliver and bless, yea, even fill With consola- 
tion and joy, this sinful, sinking worm. Come, O come^ 
make haste to deliver! snatch this poor soul from sin, and misery, 
and ruin, as a brand from the fire! O magnify, magnify the riches 
of thy grace in working instantaneous wonders of grace and sal- 
vation for it! Make it a splendid trophy of thy grace, a bright 
and glorious and everlasting monument of thy redeeming love. 
Without delay O God! come do\v'n and save. Give unto it faith 
and repentance and holy love, and entire sanctification of its 
nature. O make it a new creature in Christ Jesus, 1 very humbly 
and most earnestly pray. Even now banish from it all clouds and 
glooms, darkness and doubts, and fiil it with peace and hope. If 
it be thy righteous w^ill, great Lord of Lords, and King of Kings, 
sovereign Disposer of all events, even yet, at this extreme mo- 
ment, rebuke the disease and restore this aiHicted dying mortal 
to health and active life: that it may from this time forth see many 
good days upon the earth, and long be thy faithful servant, devoted 
m all its powers of soul and body to serve thee, to spend and be 
spent in doing good ; in actively advancing the glory of thy great 
name, and the good of man. But if it be thy sovereign determi- 
nation for its body at this time to die, and its spirit to take its 
flight; be moved with pity and do not drive it away in its sins; let 
this poor mortal die the death of the righteous, and let its last 
end be like his. And now, into thy compassionate hands, OGod 
of grace and tender mercy, of amazing condescension love and 
salvation, I resign this my feeble languishing fellow mortal; thine 
it is by creation and by preservation, make it thine by redemption 
and eternal salvation, to the praise of the glory of thy great name, 
now and for ever, 

Thus my unhappy, afBicted friend, I have familiarly talked to 
you, and taught you, and cautioned you, and warned you, and 
plead with and persuaded you, and prayed for you; and all these 
I have done in sinceritj^, with a feeling, affectionate heart, with 
all my soul. My duty towards you appears to be done, and the 
time to have come, when I should take my leave of you and with- 
draw, but before I go 1 will say a word or two more. Pray for 
yourself, as the dying thief did, and if it please God to raise you 
up and restore you to health and prolong your life, remember how 
you felt when you were at the point of death, remember how ear- 



THE AFFLICTED. 149 

uestly you desired to have a little time allowed you, if it were but 
a month, or a week, or a day or two, of composure and freedom 
from pain, to make your peace with God ; and henceforth be con- 
tinually engaged in seeking "his favor which is Ufe, and his lov- 
ing kindness which is better than life." Do all the good you can 
— lose no opportunity to teach and persuade your fellow creatures 
to prepare to die and to meet God. Never, never so much as look 
towards, or have one desiring thought or feeling towards your form- 
er course of vice and sin^ But should it not please him to restore 
you, and should you be called to die in a few days, or even in a 
few fsours, die with the voice of prayer on your lips, if you have 
strength enough to utter a voice, if not with prayerful desires on 
your heart. And now, as I have done and said all I can, give me 
your hand that I may bid you an affectionate farewell. Farewellj 
farewell my afflicted fellow mortal, and should we never meet 
again on earth, may the infinite and merciful God who made us, 
grant that we may meet in heaven; no more to sin, no more to be 
afflicted, but for ever to feel grateful to him, and to enjoy him, and 
unceasi^igly and eternally to praise and glorify his adorable and 
gracious Majesty. 
Jan.'mth, 1830. 



aJ 



FOR PxiRENTS IN AFFLICTION. 

A considerable part of the inhabitants of the continent of 
America are parents. A larger proportion of the community are 
married, and raising families, than in older settled countries. — 
And far the larger part of this proportion are to be found in the 
lower classes of society, and particularly among the poor. All 
persons are liable to afflictions and death; parents are not exempt. 
it is no uncommon thing in a family, fv>r one, or both, the parents 
to be disabled by some calamity or disease; or to be cut off by 
.death. The children have many and great difficulties to cope 
with, when their parents are virtuous and industrious, and both 
spared to contrive and labor for them, and instruct, and encour- 
age, and counsel them. Their difficulties are increased when 

13 



150 CONSOLATIONS OF 

either tlieiv fath^ or mother is idle, or vicious, or is disabled by 
sickness or cut off by death. Much more, when both are disabled 
or cut off. In either case it is difficult, if not impossible, for the 
children to be kept together. As a general rule, it is much better 
for them to be raised together, than to be separated into different 
families. The loss of one or both parents, is not only the loss of 
those who are bound to provide for them, but it is the loss of that 
natural affection which they can find in none else. Parents may 
be deficient in providing for them, may indulge them too much, 
or may even show partiality to one, to tiie injury of others; but 
when mixed in other families, with other children, their injuries 
are apt to be greater and more discouraging; more neglect, mark- 
ed partiality, and down right abuse, are likely to take place. 

Some of the leading advantages of their being brought up to- 
gether, are, that they may know one another, and become inti- 
mately acquainted, and be wnited together in strong and still 
stronger bonds of affection, and thus be prepared and inclined to 
f*ssist one another as they grow up, and after they are grown, and 
even after they are separated and settled in life, having the same 
habits manners and customs, views, sentiments and character. 
For these reasons, generally speaking, (as I have said) they had 
better be raised together. If parents are spared to them, the most 
common exceptions to this rule, are, when they are not disposed 
to discharge their duty towards them, ^ r not able to do it. It is 
for those who are not able to do it, and for those who are threaten- 
ed to be cut off and taken from them, that I now write. > Ihave 
filready written for th6sc not disposed to do it, the vicious; and 
also for their children, the young in affliction. This however, I 
have done, only as it. respects their being diseased, and not partic- 
ularly with regard to the want of a disposition in parents to dis- 
charge their duty to their children, nor with regard to children's 
being bereaved of their parents. On these points I have not, nor 
do I intend to enlarge. My plan was, more particularly to attend 
to those afflictions which consist in actual diseases of the body, 
and those distresses of the mind which naturally arise from such 
diseases. I cannot refrain, however, from saying a word to ail 
those bereaved of near and dear relations or friends, particrJarly 
to young people and children. Dear friends, however much you 
may h^^ve depended on, or been attached to the person or persons 
you have lost, reflect seriously that they had once to die, sooner or 
later, according to the appointments of God, and his ippointed 
time had come, therefore they had to obey his c ill. Just give 
them up then, remembering and being very sensible that you too 
must die, but you are not yet dead, and have yet your work to do 
OR ihe earth, and perhaps a great deal more now, since the removal 



THE AFFLICTEI), l51 

of your friends.— It is one of We best things tMit you can do to 
sooth your minds, actively to engage in doing this work, and 
doubtless it is the design of Providence that you should do so. 
Do not look then, for other such friend? on whom to depend, for 
you cannot likely find such. Depend therefore, on God and on 
yourselves, and in all things and in all respects, do your duty, and 
he will comfort your minds and reconcile you to your losses, and 
make up your losses unto you^ and cause all things to go well, and 
end well with you. I must now hasten on to console the parent 
in affliction. 

And you too, my fellow mortal, are afflicted, and are a parent, a 
father or a mother, having charge of one, or more, or many chil- 
dren, and these perhaps small and helpless. You have been an in- 
??trument in the hands of Cod of bringing them into existence. 
Hitherto you have been devoted to take care of ihem, and provide 
for them; and whether riches or poverty was your lot, you found 
the task a great and arduous one; but now a disease has taken 
hol'l of you, one of the grand pillars of their support, the piop 
on which their infincy was lodged and unpheld, and on which 
they still depend. 

Before you were married you had yourself to take care of. Af- 
ter the birth of your children, in them you recognized yourself; 
yourself enl-irged or multiplied. The wants of your original self 
were thes^jmeas before, and in them the enlarged part of yourself^ 
your wants were increased nccording to their numbers, and good or 
bad condition. When you had your single self to provide for, 
your wants were neither few nor small, but afier the births of your 
children, these were greatly increased. Wants, and trials, and sor- 
rows cluster around them, as well as around yourself. To meet 
these wants, to bear them Uirough these trials, and to sooth them 
under these sorrows, eniployed your whole time, and consumed 
all your stren^jth. And now a disease, either moe or less viol«-nt 
and threat^nincr, baa robbed vou of your strength, and forbidden 
you thus to employ your time./ Even if your disease is slow and 
continuous or chronic, but great enough to take your strength, it 
is no inconsiderable disease. You may by s^ich a disease be ren* 
dered unable to do any thinsf for your funily or yourself, except 
to contrive, or lay plans. Indeed you may be so enfeebled, and 
at the same lime so destitute as to be un. ble to lay pJans, or in 
any way to provide for your own wnnts, much less the wants of 
your dear little children. Furthermore, your disease may be of 
surh a character as to threaten to take you, in a few days, from 
them, never more to lift a hand for them, or see their fjces again 
in the fl>sh. The aches and pains which your disease gives vou, 
aro truly severe and very trying, no doubt you consider the afflic- 



152 ft®NSOtATIO?fS ©F 

lion great enough, but this affliction is increased, is perhaps 
dmihl d by the thought of your dear children, O my Httl^ ones! you 
excl - i»n, my dear little ones ! my babes ! my babes! what will becoinc 
of y u ? what will become of yon ? young, feeble, tender, expos^^rl, 
helpless! O my babes! my babes what wHl become of you? This 
feeling, heart-n^oving exclamation of youis, my friend, is the voice 
of nature; 'lis the grief of a paien V heart, a parent's hear1 bleed- 
ing for those dear litile mortal, immorial beings which cry and 
cling iround your emaciated and helpless body, and look fbr that 
aid and attentitm which you have l>een accn3U)med to give them; 
No wonder that thoughts and feelings for them should greatly add 
to your afflictions. The g.eat question i«, how you are to becon- 
Foled, if it be but a litrle, in this most tryinqfcondiuon. My dear 
friend, though your case is truly disconsolate, and has much in it 
to cause desperation, yet, t humbly think a few things may be 
said, which will in some measure sooth your aching bleeding 
lieart. 

The first advice which I w'ould give you, is, though you can do 
but little for them, to do that little. If you ct>n barely hold up 
your head and speak a few words at a time, make the attem[>t, for 
those of them who may be able to hear and understand. If you 
liave many, the older ones must be old enough to hear and feel 
for themselves and for their dear little younger brothers and sis- 
ters. Tell them all those things about being good children, which 
long before this you ought to have often told them, and perhaps 
have. Let them know, as cleailr and fully as they can understand, 
their true condition in this miserable world, ond how to make the 
best of it. Tell them what it is that makes character and happi- 
ness. Show them fully and impress it upon their minds, with 
the tenderness, and affection, and weight of a lansfuishing parent's 
words, that only the virtuous and the piousare us^^ful in the world,, 
and have any good ground to expect to share a pmrt of that little 
liappiness which is to be found here below. Impress them as 
deeply as possible with a sense of what will be their orphan, and 
bereft, and exposed condition, if you are never restored to health 
and strength again, to provide for them, and to educate them. 
Do your utmost to impress them not only with a sense of their loss 
in your being brought down, but with the absolute necessity of 
their depending upon themselves to supply that loss, and to supply 
it not only for themselves, but for their younger brothers and sis- 
ters. Tell them they must be men and women in their very child- 
hood. They must immediately leirn to contrive and manage and 
work for themselves. They must be wise in their youth, and very 
industrious. They must go to work as if they would starve and 
perish if they did not do what you, their parent, heretofore have 



THE AFFLICTED> 153 

done &}Y them. Even if it is in your power to leave them wealthy 
you should strive thus to impress them todepenaupon themselves, 
lest others impose upon them and take their wealth, and they 
iinally come to starvation and ruin. 

But ahove all, it is your duly, indispensably incumbent on you^ 
to impress them with the great and all-impoitant truth, that though 
y u be taken from them, yet they have a heavenly Parent, who can 
be disturbed by no sickness nor calamity, can never be brought 
down, nor die, n<)r even sleep. "Behold he that keepeih Israel 
shall neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord is thy keeper." Re- 
mind them most affectionately, of the beginning of the Lord's 
prayer — ''Our father which art in heaven." Tell ifiem what the 
apostle says — "To us there is but one God the Father, of whom 
are all things." And what he says ii- another place, of God— - 
^'J will be a Father un^o you and ye shall be my sons and daugh- 
ters, saith the Lord Almighty."" O tell them of their great heav- 
enly Parent, with a feeling heart, with tears in your eyes, with all 
the earnestness of a dying earthly pareni ! Point them, point 
them to their heavenly Father, with so much zeal and earnestness 
that they will look up and beheve indeed that God is their Father, 
and that though *hey cannot see him, yet he sees them at all 
times, and will watch over them and keep them, if they continually 
trust in him, and feel themselves to be his sons and daughters. 
Exhort them wi-hall your heart to shun idleness, and all kind of 
b-.id words and evil ways, and to treat all persons with the respect 
due unto them, and to be very kind unto all, but especially unto 
©ne another. Persuade and beg them never to quarrel among 
themselves, but To love one another most tenderly and affection- 
ately, and to do every thing that they can to s^rve and help one 
another. 

Thus much you can do for your children, even if you are very 
low and feeble. 

Again, it will be another great source of consolation to you, if 
your companion is alive and well, and able to go in and out before 
the children of you both, the dear pledges of your love. This 
will be the greatest eartlily source of consolation that will likely 
rise up to y(;ur vif^w, from any quarter whatever, ft ought to do a 
great deal towards calming, and soothinof, and consojing your anx- 
ious tiching heart. Great, great is tire wisdom of God, and his 
goodness too, and thesf^nppear very strikingly in the creation of 
mankind; ''male and female created he them." This was his 
pi m to (nake them fruitful to muliiply and replenish the earthy 
:im\ subdue it. A plan all over full of wisdom and goodness, 
and admirably calculated to accomplish its great end, the increase 
and happiness of mankind. I do not say that God could not 



154 OOXSftLATIONS Of* 

have made them social beings without making them male and 
female, but 1 do say that by miking them so, he has ably and 
wonderfully secured to them a social nature, and made socie y 
their natural slate, with all its hrippy consequences. 

Accordingly, in this world of innumerable difficulties, mankind 
are not propagated by single, lonely unassisted individuals, but 
by pans, by a father and mother. The great work of providing 
for, and rearing, and educating children, is committed to the joint 
counsel and efforts of two. . 

Is one by nature not as able in mind or in body as the oiher, 
ihe children will depend more upon the abler. Is one diseased or 
cripled, or in any way disabled, tjiey hK,k with hope to the other. 
fs one cutoff by the great destroyer death, the other may be left 
to be their friend and helper. These are the instri»ments, or 
means, which God has provided for the bringing into existence, 
and for the reariiig, and defending, and snppoiting, and coimsel- 
ing, and encouraginsj and comforUng, and ediiciting generation 
after generation. But, as I have hinted; irr his riglreous sever- 
eigntv, it sometimes pleases him to disal le one or loth of them; 
sometimes to cut off one, yea, sometimes to cut off both. And 
you are one of those instruments, and it may I e your c'jise is an 
ext.eme one. Perhaps you are a widow, who in the days of your 
husband, had great diihculties to encounter, in this great work of 
rearing children, notwithstanding all the lielp he could give you. 
"^^lien he was called away the whole burden came upon you. 
Y »u felt like being crushed to the earth under it, and it h;^ indeed 
been a heavy burden upon you; nevertheless you have struggled 
along under it up to the present time, and struggled so constantly 
and faithfully as to have been successful in providing something 
for tjiem and in keeping them together even till now. But, times 
out of number, did you say to yourself, — '^hard is the task, hard, 
hard indeed is the task! You thought it altogether hard enough, 
but it seems it has pleased God to fidd lo it, by affl\cting you, and 
threatening to take you away from this world; f om all your dear 
friends, and from what are dearest of all. to you, your children,, 
your truly dear little ones. Poor afflicted mother, I mus* ac- 
Iniowledge your case to be an extreme one indeed, one of the 
most trying "tijat flesh is heir to.'' A multiplicity of ills Jiave 
gathered around you, and settled upon you. You, in the days of 
37o\ir husband's life, at best, the weaker vessel ; he cut off from y/)U 
and gone; you left a helpless wom^n. with children still more help- 
less, and to comple'e the whole, a disea!=e preying upon you, and 
jendevinj? you more helpless stilly yea, bringing you down upon 
that bed where you now lie; and threateniji^j ere long, to mr ke 
Ihe cold grave your bed, and your children, already fatlierless. 



I 



THT: A.FFLTCTED. 155 

motherless. Heart-rending! heart-rending indeed! No wonder! 
no wonder you are disconsolate! No wonder your head droops, 
your hand f'.lls, and your liPart sickens and sinks within you, and 
you feel yotirself, at tiuies, abandoned hy God and man, and by 
hope itself. Gentle nDC'ther, tender, affectionate, afflicted mother, 
''be not swallowed np wi'h overmuch sorrow,'' great is ihepf>wer 
of God, and it is always guided by his wisdom and goodness. He 
may even yet raise you up nd restore you to heabh and strength, 
and spare you to go in and out before your children, and long 
enough ti) see ^hem nil g'own and jble to provide for themselves. 
This is qui'e possible, and not only so, but a very cornu^on thing. 
He often brings persons low, very kw, and mothers too, sr^ch as 
you are, and then restores the'n. This he does to show them how 
insignificant and feeble they are, and how entirely » bey dfpend on 
hmi. This mny be his purpose uith y(<u. Who knows? who can 
tell? [i is unknown to you, neither do I know. I^ is known to 
God alone. We hope he will restore yon; and yon too should 
hope, ;uid you may not hope in vain. Your hoping is one of the 
besr m(^ans to bring it about. But though it is your dirty to hope^ 
it is uncertain what the ^vent will be. 

If, vvhfMi we are in heilth, it is our w.sdom to be preparing for* 
and slmdingf ready for denth, how much more is it your wisdom 
and du-v at this ime, threatened, threatened to an alarming de- 
gree. O! s-'.y you, hnw cm I g>>? hovi^ can I go and leave these 
precious liUle ones, • b'eidy fa-herless, and to be motherless in this 
world of troul/Ie.and sorrow? Loving, fond mother, should it be 
so; consider for a moment that you will not be the first mother 
.that was ^ver called au'ay from her helpless offspring. PerhapS; 
as you have passed throu5[h lif^ you have had froquent opportuni- 
ties of seeing children left by both father and 'nother; and though 
you observed someof them to meet many difficulties, and sore triads, 
and much abuse, yet yo!i may have seen others who got along ex- 
ceedinglv well, and some vi; ho did better without theirpnrenis, th m 
they likely would have done with them. Some who grew up to be 
.men and women of superior worth and no^e, of g-'eat resfiectabilify 
and inQuence, and of uncommon usi^f ibies'^; wlio, in ;)1) prol)abib;Ty 
would never have risen lo such eminence if tfieir paren s had lived, 

One reason why orphan children sometimes do so vvell, is, that 
they le;irn, very early in life, to depend upon their own t^neigies 
arvl eff<»rts. The greatest men have come upunnssisfed, and ma- 
ny of the m')st virtuous and amia!)le women were orphins m their 
youth. A'U)ther n^ason is, ihey were not inj'u'ed or spoiled by 
thee.Kce«?siveind'dgence of ov(^r-fond parents. Prom these 'easoris 
and othe's which I do not t:irrv k) mention, f s\y tliey not uiife- 
«[uenlly become great: and God, in mercy, sometimes makes ih^m 



156? dO.'^SOLATIONS OF 

jood as well as great. So that you see he can provide for therOf 
without p-ireiiiS, and cause them to do well, both in a natural and 
moral point of view. He can in the highest sense, be a father to 
the fatherless, according to his promise. And in accordance to 
what I have said above, what he does for them he does miinly 
hy them. When he removes parents he does not bless the father- 
less without means. He will put them into the hands of other 
men and women, whom he will use as instruments to take care of 
them a little while, till they can take care of themselves; then he 
will use their own instrunientality, and make it the great means to 
advai*ce their own interest and happiness. You recollect how he 
did this for the little infant Moses; in what manner his providence 
took him up out of the ark of bulrushes, laid among the flags by the 
river^s brink; and had him faithfully nursed in his infancy, even 
by his own mother, and ably instructed in his riper years, and 
finally brought on to be the great and good law-giver of Israel.^ 
It is not said in vaintiien, — '"^A father of the fatherless and a Judge 
©f the widows, is God, in his holy habitation."" Listen to the 
Avorcis of this father of the fatherless, when he speaks and says — 
^Behold the fowls of the air for they sow not, neither do they 
leap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly father feedeth 
them. Are ye not much better than they?" Are not your child- 
ren, poor afflicted mother, better than the fowls of the air? Fur- 
thermore, he says — "Consider the lilies of the field, how they 
grow; they toil not, neither do they spin : and yet I say unto you, 
that even Solomon in all his glory w iS not arrayed like one of 
tijese. Wherefore if God so clothe the grass of the field, which 
to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much 
more clothe you, O yeof li-tlefaith." And will he not, poor dy- 
ing mother, clothe your fatherless children even if they become 
motherless too? if then, it is your lot now to be laken away from 
them, as you are dyina^ let these v;ords of their great heavenly 
father fall soothingly upon your ear, and find their way into yon^ 
heart. — "Leave thy fatherless children, 1 will preserve them alive.'^ 
Do these things, and you will h ve consolation concerning you¥ 
children, in your afflictions and in yourdeuth. I would now say 
a word or two concerning the manner in which you should leave 
t!.em. I have already told you that God would not preserve thera 
alive without instruments or means, though he could if hevvould. 
Accordingly, the best thing that you can do is to give them into 
the hands of one or more of your best friends, v»ho you think 
will be able and disposed to do better for them than any other 
person or persons. Ihus leave them to God that he may preserve 
them alive. Thus commit them in^o the hnnds of their lienvenly 
•fatheij the great God, who created them and all things else, and> 



t:ie afflfctk©. • 157 

who uvho] ' - nd is able to preserve fatherles^s and motjh- 

er Yea, and to prolong their lives, and to bless 

th - . . , . make them greater, and better, and happier 

1 have n- ' i er^pocf to say to you to console you, con- 

ce THig yo!jr c :i; '-ui I wyAd most serio'sly inquire of you 

h- yoi: 1!' n do ije things that 1 hfive advised you to df>, in in- 
s c-ifM.T tiern, and impressin,o* them vviih a, sense of their condi- 
Uiiii j;id th^jf^ dsity, and in committing them fo God, if you have 
nr. vet cviiiifOLtted yourself to God? If, neither in the d:..ys of 
yr v(}ath, nor in the days of your husband, nor in the days of 
y . widowhood, nor even now in the days and hours of your af- 
fl' u ;>, and feebleivec^s, and nearness to death, you have not given 
yoiir-v-jf r.vv y to the great father of all, to take care of you, as 
yo'i vvi '^> hi in to rnke care of your children; if you have not be- 
er t^ ni all respec :s -i ch^isrian. Are you more deeply concerned 
fc vour children iha:. (or yourself? Do you love them more than 
yoii lv>ve yoiFself? Is it no matter what becomes of you in eter- 
Y\\ V, \f you are so much concerned for their temporal well-being, 
OT p/.h p:-- mainly for their temporal condition, while in a great 
m^'^^'sKO you overlook their spiritual and eternal concerns? If 
th( y be spared alive and provided for, and do well on the eartFi 
for n few ve^rs, is it no matter whether you go down to hell for 
evei or nor? Have you thought of their bodies and your own body 
soconstandy and exchisively, as to forget and neglect your own un- 
dying and itrH><^rishable soul ? Have you not yet, up to this trying 
and sorrowful moment, been made to see the wants of your soul, 
and the dangers to which it is exposed? Have you never had a 
discovery of yonr soul's real condition, and been enabled to see 
it as God sees it? O my dear female fellow mortal, dying mother, 
have you never discovered, and known, and felt yourself to be a 
sinner in the sij?ht of God, guilty, guilty, and exposed to his just 
and eternal vengeance; find have you not further discovered and 
fully believed — "hat it is a faithful saying and worthy of all ac- 
ceptation that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners?*' 
Have you not seen your need of this great Mediator and Saviour, 
and fl"d to him as a shelter from the coming storm of divine ven- 
geance, and for your soul's eternal sdvation? If not, if not, all 
that f have said to others I now say to you, in one word — "flee 
from the wrath-to come — lay hell on eternal life.'' Your time is 
short, you cannot do it one moment too soon. Do so if you 
would obtain eve'lastin<3f consobilion for yourself. And while 
you are handing your children out of ycuir feeble dying arms, into 
ihe hands of their heavenly father, commit your own spirit t© 



158 gONSOLATlO^'S OF 

him in the hands of the Lord Jesus, the only Mediator between 
God and man, and the Saviour of the- souls of men. 
Feb. dih, 1830, 



FOR THE RICH, IN AFFLICTION. 

I next direct ray attention to the rich who may be in affliction. 
The great fact in history that there have always been, and are now, 
poor and rich, arises out of the nature of man, out of their differ- 
ent dispositions and different abilities. A few, whose lives have 
been long, have acquired riches bv hard labor, industry and econo- 
my. Some become rich by honest, and upright, and useful, and 
praise-worthy commerce, fair dealing or trading. Others by the 
rjse of property. Others inherit riches; and not a few get a great 
deal of property into their hiiuds by dishonest dealing of one sort 
or another, or by fraudulent speculation. 

Ours is a repuKlicr.n government, and from the very nature of 
such government, the means and facilities of acquiring property 
are more in the^each of every member o^ thecommuniiy, than in 
kinsriy, imperial, aristocratic, or despotic governments. Accord- 
ingly, in our beloved conntrv, property is to be found more equally 
distributed throughout thegre^it body of the people, than in coun- 
tries tmder such governments, and it takes less of it to give ai man 
the name of a rich man. The rich are therefore very numerous; 
and as they arehable tocaltm'iies diseases and death, in like man- 
ner with all oifier persons, the number of afflicted among them 
will be in proportion to their own number. In writing then, for. 
this part of the community, I write for no small part of the whole. 

It now falls to mv lot, and becomes my duty to visit you in your 
afflictions, my fellow rnortal. Accordingly I h'^.ve come, and am 
here present m yonr room. I find yca\ in the midst of the good 
things of this life. Yon have f(>od and rrimeut; and not only 
food, but m'lch food and many ch;mges of r^'iment. You are 
surrounded with the rich provisions, and supernhoimding bountie£ 
of Provid<mee; at all of whicf) you can look and call them your f)wn.. 
You have "fruits and much goods 1 sid up for mrny yeirs." You 
have also treasures of silver and tre;)sures of gold; your coffers or 
chests contain alarae arnonnt. But these are not .all. Yoh have ; 
here, as I now see with my own eyes, a grent house with many 
out-houses, a splendid mansion with its convenient appurtenances 
and appendages; with its apartments, rooms, h-^lls and furniture. 
All the apparatus, the utensils and furniture of your house are in ) 
conformity to the houso itself, convenient and gr^nd, many ofj 



II 



J 



THE AFI^ICTED. 159 

ikem glittering with splendor. Your table furniture is of the 
most costly kind, of the best materials and most beautifully orna- 
mented. Your mirrors or looking-glasses, are broad, and long as 
men and women, and gilt witli gold. Your floors are elegantly 
carpeted, and walls as elegantly papered and adorned with much 
carved work. There too, are your easy-backed, soft cushioned, 
"accomplished sofas," fixed on wheels to move whither your 
judgment may dictate, or your fancy prompt. And here is your 
"bed decked with coverings of tapestry, with carved works, with 
fine linen," and filled with the softest down. And I observe all 
these things around you to be as clean as skilful hands with much 
labor can make them. Moreover, you have as many domestics 
either servants or hirelings as you wish. And as it is true 'Hhat 
wealth maketh many friends, but the poor is separated from his 
neighbor," you have many friends. Thus I find you in the midst 
of all this abundance, this splendor, these domestics and these 
friends. Your compHcated and extensive affairs you have been 
accustomed to superintend and direct hitherto. You were a per- 
soii having authority ; to one you said go and he went ; to anpther 
come and he came; to a third do this and he did it. YoU 
appeared with the full glow of he.dth upon your countenance, 
moving from place to place with activity and strength. Not un- 
frequently you caught hold of the instruments in the hands of 
those under your authority, and with uncommon expertness, ra- 
pidity, skill and strength, showed them not only how to do their 
work well, but rapidly too. Tn short, with great ability and suc- 
cess you stood at the head of a very large and difficult concern. 
But instead of finding you this day at the head of this concern, 
standing or moving with that health, and strength, and activity in 
which you have heretofore so much exulted, 1 find you checked, 
stopped, and prostrated by disease. You, now, like all others in 
affliction, need consolation. Does the poor person in afflictioii 
need consolation? so do you. But it is possible that the poor 
person, after all, may not be so needy as yourself This depends 
upon the state of things within you both. It depends upon inter- 
nal riches. You have external riches, the poor person hds not, 
but you may have internal riches, and if hehas, nnd you have no 
riches within, he in affliction, has the advantage of you, is nothing 
like as needy as yoii are. BiU if you have, in addition to your 
external riches, internnl riches, I can see no reason why you may 
not have greatly <he advantage of him. if you are thus lich with- 
out and within, it appeijrs to me that you have greater advant lijes 
than either cliaracter for whom I have yet written or intend to 
rite; yea, greater advantages than any chu'.cter that can be 
>und among the sons and daughters of affliction and sorrow. 



160 OO¥SOLATI0N& OF 

By internal riches I mean a good character; and by a good 
character 1 mean all that is excellent in a moral poiiit of vievvj 
from the least good moral trait, disposition, or act, up to the higif st 
that is attainable by man here below. I mean those riches \\h>ch 
consist in knowledge and wisdom, in faith and love, in holiness 
and hope, in patience, and resignation. I mean what I have 
described at length, in the first part of my book, (viz:) the inter- 
nal riches of a true christian. If you possess these in connection, 
with your external riches which J have just described, you. :ire 
rich indeed, and rich even in your afflictions; yea more, will be 
rich even in your death and in eternity.. But though you may be 
thus doubly rich, and rich to the furthest extent in both these 
kind of riches, nevertheless you may be disconsolate and need 
consolation. Neither the one kind of riches nor the other, nor 
both together, can remove distressing pains and sorrows, and do 
away the need of consolation from the disconsolate sons and 
daughters of affliction. The one kind can do much more than 
the other, vastly, incomparably more. External riches caVi do 
but little, internal riches can do very much. I say then, if you 
possess internal riches as well as external, but are notwithstand- 
ing disconsolate, in your afflictions, all I can present to you I have 
already done, in the two first parts of my book. To the first or 
second part according as your disease may be, rapid or chronic, I 
now most seriously refer you; if you humbly and confidently thi'ik, 
and satisfactorily know, upon good evidence, that you do possess 
these internal riches; in other words, that you are a true christiati, 
you may find much there to console you. Every variety and form 
of consolation there brought to view— revery consoling thing, and 
thought, and consideration you may apply and^appropriate to 
yourself. And this you may do by the help of your external 
riches, to the greatest advantage. If you have been so wise, and 
so resolute and happy, as to put your external riches into their 
place, and keep them there — if you have not set your heart su- 
premely upon them — if you have not made them your God, but 
used them as your temporal and temporary servant, they have 
been a good servant, arid now in the days of your calamity, and 
sorrow, and helplessness, will be a very good one. If your af- 
flictions remain long on you they will supply all your earthly 
wants. You will be able to have that food which is the most suit- 
able — that raiment which is the most comfortable, and your house 
dry and warm in winter, and well aired in summer, and always 
clean. You vvill be able to have the attention of the best doctors, 
and all that nursing and waiting upon which can do you any good. 
Yo'ir riches will enable you to take long journeys or change your 
elimate if that is thought best, and they will always enable you, 



I- 



XHE AFFLICTED, 161 

Avliere ever you may be, to have many friends about you. Again, 
if your disease is of the violent and raging kind, and should it 
actually take you out of the world in a very short time, your 
riches will enable you to have all that hel p which the earth affords. 
They will hand you out of the world more gently and more easi- 
ly, ihan the cold hands of poverty hand out the poor. All these 
things they may do for you according to your need. 

On the other hand if you have been so unwise, irresolute and 
unhappy, as to let your external riches get out of their place, and 
remain so, and if they are at this moment out of their proper place, 
they no doubt have already done you much injury, are doing it 
rjow, and if you do not succeed in getting them into their place^ 
will finally do you an irreparable and endless evil. Perhaps, 
however, you are at a loss to know what 1 mean by your riches 
being out of their place. If so, I will attempt to give you a little 
more clear and full explanation. If your riches are out of their 
place, they got so, in something like the following manner. 

You discovered yourself to be in a world in which food was 
absolutely necessary to sustain life. You saw that you must ex- 
ert yourself and obtain it, or perish with hunger. Further, you 
found that proper clothing and a suitable covert from the weather 
and storm, greatly conduced to your health and comfort. There- 
fore you devoted yourself, body and soul, to get these things; and 
perhaps so unreservedly, that you did not allow yourself any time 
even to enjoy the society of friends; much less to improve your 
mind by gaining useful knowledge, or attending to any other of 
(he high concerns of your immortal soul. 

All other objects dwindled down to a point, to a shadow, to nothing. 
You overlooked them, and as you looked around and forward, riches, 
riches filled the whole compass of your view. Riches, riches 
^ were the great, grand, absorbing object, forward to which 
you looked with eager, intense penetration; and strided with long 
and rapid strides; and grappled and grasped with all your powers. 
You, with others, gained the name of "seeing far into the mill- 
stone," in laying plans, and of "making every edge cut'' in execu- 
ting them. This business of getting rich employed your whole 
time, and exhausted all your energies. It called into perpetual 
and vigorous action, your head, your hands and your heart. You 
thought of it by day, and were engaged and overwhelmed in it, 
until the darkness of the night, and the lassitude or weariness of 
nature, beat you from it, and caused you to sink in sleep; and 
your sleep itself was not sound and undisturbed by the darling 
pursuit of your heart. Riches, riches came up. before you, in the 
visions and dreams of the night. Thus they occupied your wholo 
soul by day and by night; and you drove on until you acquired 

14 



162 CONSOLATIONS OF 

and accumulated more than enough to furnish yourself and all 
those dependent upon you, with food and raiment, house and 
home and every convenience during your own and their hfetime. 
And in the language of an ancient satirist, you held all you got^ 
with fist, and tootli, and nail, iVs the every where, and every day 
proverb is true — '"the more you have the more you want," so 
it was with you. The scriptures were verified — "he that loveth 
silver shall not be satisfied with silver, nor he that loveth abundance 
with increase." VVhenjou hid arrived at this elevated stand, a 
new demn.nd for riches, besides the want of food and raiment^ 
house and home, with equal if not increased urgency, presented 
itself to you, and pressed itself iipon you. A new ana higher 
flame of ambition was kindled, and flamed in your breast. This 
was the desire of grandeur, pomp and show. You chided your- 
self for sloth and stiip^dity, bid your energies awake, buckled on 
the harness anew, and braced yourself with redt)ubled force, to 
the far more arduous and greater task, of putting a polish and 
glare upon all your possessions, so that the eyes of all beholders 
might be d izzled, and their in»:[uiries extorted, "whose are these 
glittering possessions? who lives here?" 

Thus you have labored and toiled, striven and struggled, till, 
you have got every thing about you most grand and splendid, in the 
finest paintings and c(5lo:ing^, as I have alre;idy hinted. Those 
who visited you beheld in your residence, something like an 
earthly p-^lace. And when you went out your dress was fine and 
elegant, 'twas gorgeous appar(?l, 'iwas surpassed by none. VViieu 
you chose, you would be drawn by the noblest horse or hoises, in 
a gig, chariot or carriage, fixed on the easiest springs, cnshi^ined 
and curtained in the higliest style, and both it and the harness 
with their trappings, plated so as to be all over white with silver, 
or it may be yellow with gold. In all this magnificence and 
earthly glory, you were able to appear both at home and abroad. 
Thus you were permitted to besuccessfjl, and accomijlish your 
proud and aspiring projects; and when vou had arrived at thi# 
pitch, you were pleased, elated, proud. You had s\ich fe*"lings as 
the great kins Nebuchadnezzar had, when he walked in the palace 
of the kingdom of Babylon. — "The king spake and said, is not 
this great Babylon, that I have built for the house of the king- 
dom by the mi<iht of my power, and for the honor of my majes- 
ty?" Thus you felt when you looked upon your superb and 
splendid buildinofs, with all their appendages, and your ricli and 
costly equipage; and thought of all the bank notes and dollars 
which were in your possessi jn. It was a feeling of self sufficien- 
cy and independeiTce; you exidted in the "might of your power, 
and in th« honor gf your maj^^sty." You had these riches; you 



IWB AFPLICTB©, 166 

got them yourself; you thanked no body, nor any being for them. 
You were proud of them, and you loved them with all your heart. 
There was nothing, nor any being either visible or invisible, that 
you loved so strongly as these your external riches. They were 
your idol. — They were your God; and thus they got out of their 
pl4ce entirely, altoge her out of their place. And, by this mourn- 
ful truth, we are enabled to come to the knowledge, and the cer 
tain and unquestionible knowledge too, of another truth still 
more mournful. This? truth, which we can know with so much 
certainty, is the dreadful and alarming fact, that, your external 
riches being thus out of place, you are destitute of internal riches. 
Your whole interior, your whole soul is void of those virtues, 
those moral excellencies, which enrich, adorn, ennoble and bless 
thesoul. Which make the human being superior to all other an- 
imals of the earth; and the want of which makes him inferior to 
them all. Alas! alas! you have spent all your time and was'ed 
all your strength in providing for your body, which at best can 
only live a short lifetime; and concerning which, the words of 
the poet are strictly true, when he says — ''man wants but little, 
nor wants that little long." Yea indeed, your folly his even been 
gr jater. You have been so foolish, so mad, as to attempt to feed 
your soul, your spirit, with the coarse food which was made for 
your body. You have striven with all your energies, to cram ^nd 
fill, and satiate your immortal soul with the material, crude and 
gross husks, and trash of the earth. And the mistake you have 
received witfain yourself, leanness of soul, empviness of soul; 'tis 
all hollow within, ;m aching void. 'Twas made to be fed with 
heav(^nly, spiritual food, such as angels use, such as religion brings; 
but this you have neither sought nor found. 

And now, a cruel disease has taken iiold of you, with a strong, 
unvinlding, merciless grasp. Ii has already drawn you down 
from your lofty elevation of strength and glory; and alarmingly 
threatens to drjg you still lower, enven into the narrow precincts 
of the cold, silent, gloomy grave. This is your unhappy condi- 
tion this day, and it is mv painful lot to find you in tiiis condition. 
To all >mmin appearance the grave not many steps before you, 
and ill t'le p. ?^nr ition waic'i yo^i have for it, consists in your out- 
ward wealth, vvhich is worse thnn no preparation at all. Do you 
now look around upon your possessions and treasures, and think 
of employina[ some doctor of surpassing and unequalled eminence, 
and of giving him a very liberal compensation if he will cure you, 
even as much as he may choose to ask? Such a one is a man 
and nothirig more. Me did not give you life, neither can he pre- 
serve your life. Vain, vain then may be your hope from this 
source^ Your possessions and treasures may avail you nothing'^ 



164 eeNisoLATiONs ©f 



1 



Again, do you think of employing a numerous eeuncii of (lit 
ablest physicians? You may buy their wisdom, and skill, and 
experience, and endeavors, but all these may but hasten youu 
pace to the dark house appointed for all living. If doctors cannot 
help you, none of the men of power can. 'Tis vain to apply to 
princes or kings, monarchs or potentates, with whole nations at 
their command. You might empty your treasures into theirs, bug 
they, with all their legions and armie«, could not beat and drive 
(he disease from you, which has settled and fixed, and clinched 
its hooked, penetrating and rude talons, deep into your -mortal 
body. Utterly vain then will he your attempts to make youf 
riches serve you in this way. Being disappointed and foiled in all 
these hopes and expectations, does a thought come into your head 
to bribe death? Gold never did, nor ever will bribe the monster. 
He hath ever laughed at a bribe. Seeing the folly of this, does 
another thought rise in your mind, to give up and die, and take 
your riches along vvith you, and enjoy them in the world to which 
you are going? A sight of the absurdity and impossibility of this, 
stares you in the face like lightning, and a sense of it strikes your 
mind like thunder. You see in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye 
— "that you brouglit nothing into this world with you, and it is 
certain you can take nothing out,^' Being again utterly foiled in 
this, does it occur io your mind that God has all power to rebuke 
and remove diseases, and restore to health, and prolong life, and 
peradventure he may be tempted by a price? Vainest hope of all 
is this. There is no price in your possession to which he will 
look for a moment. Impious! impious thought! to suppose the 
Deity to be tempted by your silver and gold. 

It is true, that the Son of God who was God, and who was made 
flesh and dwelt among us, did cure all manner of diseases. But 
it is also true that he never received a price for doing it in one 
single instance. Were he now upon the earthy and even liere, 
your gold would be no inducement to him to cure and restore 
you. But he is not now upon the earth, neither does it please 
God in these days, to perform mir jcuIous cures, or to have them 
performed by any instruments or in any way. Looking in this 
direction then, your hopes must all sicken, and languish, and die, 
and vanish. You will be shut up therefore, to the one only course, 
if the disease prove too strong for you ; and that is the onwards 
course which leads hence, away from your riches, your friends 
and all that you hold dear, into the eternal world, to m3et your 
God immediately, and on the resurrection morn, and on the great 
day,thedayof general ami final judgment. But you are not ready to 
go into the presence of this terrible God, this auofust and solemn 
Judge. You are rich without, but not within. Your soul is un- 



J 



THE AFFLrCTEI). 165 

renewed, unadorned, wrapped up in earthly riches and decora- 
tions, all which must fall from about you, the moment you start 
to meet this awful God. And do you now, after all, with the 
feelings of a desperado, look around once more, and for the last 
lime, and for the last effort upon your external riches, and suffer 
a fond and final hope to rise in your breast, that God will accept 
your external riches for internal wealth? That he will admit the 
exchange, and allow you to buy the renewing and adorning of 
your soul, the new creation, so as to be a new creature, by the 
means of your treasures of silver, and treasures of gold, houses 
and lands, and your cattle upon a thousand hills? This last hope 
is vainer than the vainest, ''You were not redeemed with corrup- 
tible thmgs, as silver and gold;^' but (if at all) with the precious 
blood of Christ, as of a lamb without blemish and without spot." 
Neither can you be renewed in any other way, than by the Spirit's 
application of this precious blood to your soul, to "cleanse it from 
all sin." There is no other possible way in which you can obtain 
internal riches, riches withm. This is in short, the way of Chris- 
tianity, the way the Bible points out, 1 say, I tell you, there is 
no other way. You are destitute of internal riches. You are 
without those happy traits of character, those important moral 
qualities and qualifications, without wliich, neither you nor any 
other human being can meet God in peace. Without which, 
you can meet him in no other way than as an avenging Judge. 
This y/ay of Christianity, this way through Christ, is God^s way, 
his only way, and all the way he will allow or permit the sons and 
daughters of mankind, to approach him, to meet him, and to be 
happy with him. He appointed it himself, and has long approved 
of it. It is the "King^s high way of holiness." It is the way of 
salvation, along which the "ransomed of the Lord may return and 
come to Zion v;^ith songs and everlasting joy upon their heads." 
But if you aie not satisfied with this way, and think that there 
either has been another and better way found, or that there can be, 
and that even you can do it, if you are not satisfied with some one 
of the past discoveries made by others, I would like to know what 
that way is. What are the ways, dear feeble fi'iend, that have ever 
yel been discovered? I know of none but the ways of idolatry, 
in some one of its thousand, its numberless forms; or those 
ways which are corruptions of God's way, such as Mahomedan- 
ism. if you choose, and settle upon some one of the many ways 
of ancient or modern idolatry, what good will it do you? What 
internal riches can you thereby obtain? what safe preparation to 
meet the true God? What did the ancient heathens gain, who 
worshipped god=? of thoir own formation, gods of carved wo(k], 
i^'ods of molten silver or molten gold, gods of the animals, from 

11^ 



166 CONSOLATIONS GF 

the ichneumon and the cat, up to the bull; or gods of the hosts 
of heaven, the sun, moun and stars; or great men for gods, or 
gods of their imaginalion, that were not only no gods, but noth- 
ing at all? What did they gain I say? what internal riches? 
what preparation to meet the God that made the heavf-ns and the 
earth, the true, living and eternal God? It is impossible for you 
or any other person to tell what they gained, except it was an in- 
crease of sin, and iniquity, and degradation, and an accumulation 
of gailt. And modern idolatry can do no better. False then, 
is this way, false, false, and leads from bad to worse, and from 
worse to utter ruin. And what better can mahomedanism do? 
certainly nothing. It, too, like the schemes of idolatiy, is an 
invention of a man, to find out the way to be rich within, the way 
to meet God in peace in the w rid to come, which way was so 
hidden and deep, that none but God himself could find it out 
and make it known. Not satisfied then, with idolatry or mahom- 
edanism, will you summon all your p<»vs7ers to find out a way of 
your own? How can your powers, poor feeble creature, accom- 
phshan undertaking so great, an undertaking under which a vast 
multitude of the ablest men, not as you are now, but in good 
health, with full vigor of body and mind, yea, having superioi' 
minds, have staggered, reeled, and fallen, and failed. If Seneca, 
Cato and Cicero, Aristotle, Plato and Socrates, men of the strong- 
est and most matured intellect, surrounded by the most exciting 
circumstances, utterly failed to discover a safe way to meet God af- 
ter death, and were but idolators after ail, what can you in your 
feebleness do? What can you do, who have spent far the largest 
part of your past life in acquiring riches? What have you learnt 
besides the dimensions and value of a shilling and of a dollar? 
What can you now learn, with this disease upon you, and in the 
abort time which may be allowed you? If the heathen world 
had years after years, and acres after ages allowed them, to discover 
and learn what you vainly think you can find out in a few days^ 
or it may be in a few hours, are you not indeed vain and presump^ 
xuous? Are }^ou not vain and presumptuous in the highest pos- 
sible or imaginable degree, to think that you can, under these? 
circumstances, discover that way, which as I have said, none but 
Go'd himself could devise or find oat? Certainly, certainly you 
must be, and whether you see and believe it or not, you are thus 
vain and presumptuous; and it is true that "-here is none other 
name under heaven given among men, whereby you must be 
3aved," but the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth. "He is the 
way" and the only wiy, ^'nei^her is there salvation in any other.^ 
He is God's way. Of the truth of this, my deardi>eised fellow 
mortal^ I am deeply sensible and fully satisfied. I am entirely 



THE AFFLICTED. 167 

convinced, and very confident, that if you do not receive consola- 
tion, against the fears of death, in this way, you will receive it in 
lio way, hut will die unconsoleo and hopeless. 

What has the infidel world done? what hdive the giants of infi- 
delity done? They have spent their strength to obscure and block 
up tiiis way, and to prevent mankind from entering in thereat, but 
have never discovered another to which they could point. Their 
great business has been, to pull down and destroy, not to build up. 
To do mischief, not to do good. To pull down and put out him 
whom God hath given ''before the face of all people; a hght to 
lighten the Gr^ntiles, and the glory of his people Isroel." But 
they have ntver discovered another light. What are infidels doing 
in this age? what will they ever do? what can they do? much 
evil, no good. Neither they nor their principles can do any thing 
better thnn this, for the poor or for the rich. If you persist in 
your endeavors to discover a way of your own, by, or through 
which, to meet God in peace, you will but increase your doubts 
and darkness; you will but gather clouds and darkness around 
you, and every effort you may put forth, instead of beating away 
those clouds, and letting light in upon your soul, and consolation 
with the light, will, on the contrary, thicken the darkress that is 
about you, and multiply and magnify your disconsolate^ and un- 
happy, and hopeless feelings. 

If you become discour^iged in your attempts to discover some 
high and safe way of your own, to meet God after death — some 
grand scheme — some bold and able plan, you will be very apt to 
turn your thoughts, and your feet too, to the way of morality. 
Nothing is more common, especially with the rich. But the way 
of morality is not God's way, and therefore he will not meet you in 
that way, and receive you, and welcome you home to his rest. I 
mean by morality, what you consider your good deeds — your 
works of righteousness. God may look very difierently upon these 
good deeds, from the manner in which you look upon them. You 
may look back with much pleasure and self complacency, upon 
every acj which you consider to have been good; and perhaps in 
their place, and in a certain sense they were good, but not good 
for the purpose to which you wish now to apply them. You wish 
to make a merit of them by which to be accepted of God. That 
is to say, you wish to meet God on your own terms, and in your 
own way. But he has declared that you shall not, that you can- 
not. He has ever had a law for man since he made him. You 
have broken that law, and yo'i cannot repair it. Yon cannot per- 
form the works that it requires. "By the deeds of the law there 
altall no flesh be justified in his sight.*" "The law worketh wrath.'' 
"A man is not justified by the woiks of the law, but by the faiift 



168 CONSOLATIONS OP 

of Jesus Christ.^' ^^As many as are of the works of the law are 
under the curse, for it is written, cursed is every one that contin- 
Aieth not in all things that are written in the hook of the law to do 
them." "That a man is not justified by the law in the sight of 
God, is evident: for the just shall live by faith." -'For whosoever 
shall keep the whole law, and yet offend in one point he is guilty of 
all." Christ offended in no point, and was guilty of nothing. 
"He was holy, harmless, undefiled, and separate from sinners." 
He was the perfect way. 'i'he holiest men have acknowledged 
themselves sinners and unholy, in words like the following, which 
were the words of one of the holiest, a id which briefly point out 
the manner in which men are saved in God's way. — "For we our- 
selves also were sometimes foolish, disobedient, deceived, serving 
divers lusts and pleasures, living in malice and envy, hateful, and 
hating one another. But after that the kindness and love of God 
our Saviour toward man appeared, not by works of righteousness 
which we have done, but according to his mercy he saved us, by 
the washing of regeneration and renewing of the Holy Ghost; 
which he shed on us abundantly through Jesus Christ our Sa- 
viour." If such a man, who had been devoted to do works of 
righteousness, and had literally spent his life m doing them, felt 
constrained to say of himself and others — "not by works of right- 
eousness which we have done," what language can you use, who 
have been all your life gathering together riches? 

But perhaps you remember that you were a very honest, liberal, 
benevolent dealer. That you paid all your debts most prompt- 
ly — did not exact all that was due to you — sent not the poor away 
hungry nor naked, but abundantly fed and completely clothed^ 
and that you were ever moved with pity towards the widow and 
the fatherless, and ate not your bread alone but divided it most 
freely. Especially that you visited all the sick and afflicted, and 
poured in the healing vntie and oil, lifted and encouraged ihe 
drooping head, end emptied your pockets to procure for them all 
that aid that mortal can give to mortal in this vale of teai-s. All 
these acts, no doubt, were good and very good in their proper 
lime and place, and are commendable, and have always been com- 
mended, and always will be by all the virtuous and the good. 
The same holy m^n of whom 1 have spoken above, directs all "to 
be careful to maintain good works, declaring that these things 
are good and profitable unto men." But this same holy man as 
clearly and as forcibly declares that they will not save a man — 
that they are not God's way of salvation, when he says — "Through 
I spe\k with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not 
charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. 
And though i have the gift of prophesy, and understand all ims 



'SHE A^FLIC^ED. 169 

teries, and all knowledge : and though I have all faith, so that I 
Gould remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. 
And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I 
^ive my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me 
nothino:." These are works of righteousness, and the most ex- 
alted works of righteousness. They are much more than c©m- 
mon morality, and yet you see how entirely they fail to enable a 
person to meet God in peace. What then ! what then ! O thou 
that art rich in dollars, and in good deeds too, will either or both 
of these avail thee, if the disease which has seized you, hurry 
you away with no other preparation, to the bar of that God who 
had a way of salvation, an^ told you of that way so plainly, and 
so repeatedly? What good will your morality do you, when you 
begin to reckon with this august, unyielding and terrible Judge^ 
who will be approached in no other way than his own? It will 
be nothing in the account, and you will be hastily spurned from 
his presence, as an evil doer, a disobedient and impenitent sinner* 

You know, my afflicted friend, what is said of the rich: if you 
do not, I will tell you with a feeling and an affectionate heart. 
"They that trust in their wealth, and boast themselves in the mul- 
titude of their riches; none of them can by any means redeem 
his brother, nor give to God a ransom for him.'' "Will he esteem 
thy riches? no, not gold nor all the forces of strength.'" — "Riches 
profit not in the day of wrath." "Their sdver and their gold 
shall not be able to deliver them in the day of the wrath of the 
Lord" "For the love of money is the root of all evil; which 
while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and 
pierced themselves through with manv sorrows.'' "What is a 
man profited, if he gain the whole world and lose his own sou], 
or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul." "Not many 
wise mon after the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble, are 
called." "How hard is it for them that trust in riches to enter 
into the kingdom of God !" "Go to now, ye rich men, weep and 
howl for your miseries that shall come upon you. Your riches 
are corrupted, and your garmen*s are moth-eaten. Your gold and 
silver is cankered; and the rust of them shall be a witness against 
you, and shall eat your flesh as it were fire. Ye h- ve heaped 
treasure together for the last days." "W^oo unto you that are 
rich! fo" ye have received your consolation." 

"There was a certain rich man which was clotlied in pu'plc 
and fine linen, and fired sumpt'K)usly every day * * ^^ * 
the rich man dieil and was buried; and in h-ll he lified up h\s 
ey(\s, being in tonnon's, and secth Abraham afir ofi*, and Jiaz-rus 
in his bosom. And he cried and said, Fatfier Abraham, have 
mercy on me, and send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of iiis 



170 U6Nk>LATI0?eS OV 

finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in thiy 
flame. But Abraham said, son, remember that thou in thy life* 
time receiyedst thy good things, and likewise Lazarus evil things; 
but now he is comforted, and thou art tormented. And besid(}« 
all this, between us and you there is a great gulf fixed; so that 
they which would pass from hence 1o you cannot; neither can 
they pass to us that would come from thence.'' 

This is what is said of the rich — ^11 these different slayingsand 
declarations are made of them. And now the great matter is,— 
thegreat query, are these things applicable to you? shall they be 
said of you? shall they come upon you, and shall this be your 
doom? If so, you appear to be moving on to it with great rapid-* 
ity, and the time is at hand. Again, 1 say, shall it be so? As it i 
jespects all secondary things, means and causes, more depends 
upon your own choice, than any other one thing, or all other 
things taken together. If you choose to have thesf sayings and 
declarations verified in yourself, and to meet this doom, you will 
have it so. If you choose and determine that it shall not be so, 
then it will not be so. We know that nothing can be this way or 
th?t, without the agency, or permission of him on whom all things 
depend. Yet mysterious as it may appear to us, and really is, 
thrs great being tells us all, poor and rich, that our doom will be 
according to our choice. But perhaps you are unconcerned and 
indifferent about all these things, or at least profess to be, and en- 
ile-ivor to appear so. It may be you are concerned about being 
sickj and disabled from business, and in pain and distress, if not 
about death. If this is the case let me take a view of your con- 
dition, and as f attempt to see it and describe it, it may be well 
for you to look at it too. 

Here you lie upon your '^bed, decked with coverings of tapest- 
ry, with carved works, with fine linen." Your clothing 'Ms purple 
and fine linen." You are a rich person, and you have every thing 
rich and splendid about you, as I have betore said. In these 
things you have taken, and if you could be spared, would still 
take delight. And here stand your friends, to whom you are at- 
tached by the tenderest and strongest ties. 

How can it be that you have no concern about leavmg these 
things and these friends? Why did you take delight in procuring 
them and in having them, and why do you possess so strong de- 
sires to live, and still to have these things, and to enjoy these 
friends, and at the same time have no concern about dying and 
leaving them for ever? Impossible! Impossible! my fellow mor- 
tal, unless yout heart is truly hardened, to the hardness of the 
nether mill-stone. 

The very thought of leaving these things and these friends, is 



THE AVVLJCT^. 171 

a heart-meving and a heart-melting consideration. It is, as I 
have before said, the greatest chaqge and the greatest trial that 
mm has to p iss th'ough on the earth. And I appeal to your own 
heart ami conscience to know if it is not so, and if you have not 
viewed it to be so, and felt as if it were indeed so. Why have 
yon be^^n moved when you have stood over a dying triend? Why 
did the tears liow down your cheeks, and w'lj was your heart melted 
an 1 wrung with sorrow and grief, at the mournfnl sight of seeing 
them torn aw;iy by the violent hands of death? Why have you 
been greatly moved on hearing of many lives lost by a storm, a 
pestilence, an earthquake, or an all destroying battle, in which 
thousands and tens of thousands were killed? Why have you 
always been moved and hid deep concern at the death of others^ 
bu= pretend lo have none about your own. The death of all that 
have died or ever will die, cannot effect you like the death of your- 
self If you vv-ere now to stand and see all that are alive upon 
the eirth, sink by an earthquake, and be ingnlphed, but yourself 
spaced, it would not effect you at all in comparison to your own 
dejth. If all were to stand and see you sink and be swallowed 
up, the mifter would be unspeakably greater to you th jn your see- 
ing them sink. If all these your friends, near and dear to vou 
were confined as yoii are, and threatened by death, would you 
have no concern for tly?m? You certainly would. Have they no 
concern now for you? Yes, their hearts move and melt witli 
pitv and grief. And can you seeall thisconcern in them foryou, 
and h ive none for yourself? No, no!! 

Therefore, I am forcibly and inesistildy drawn to the con- 
elusion again, that it is impossible for you to be uncon- 
cerned about dying, when you take into view, barely your leaving 
the things and beings of this world. I say it is impossible for 
you to be unconcerned, unless your conscience ifreared with a hot 
iron, and your heart is hard as the nether mill-stone; or you are 
put of your right mind, (viz:) deranged. And if you are not so, 
but have your senses, you must be much more concerned about 
what will become of you after death. Do you pretend? can you 
p^-esume to say, that you have no concern about whither you are 
going, or what will become of you? If so, I would ask why you 
have continually possessed and exhibited so much concern about 
all the various, unpleasmr, temporary changes to which you have 
ever been liable, and through many of which you have passed? 
Why were you peri:)etually anxious, and exceedingly anxious, lest 
you should experience the change of becoming poor and needy, 
destitute not only of the comforts, but of the actual necessaries of 
life? Why did you hnve any concern or dread, about any of the 
many calamities that you were liable to, which were not ijkcly tf> 



i72 CONSOLATIONS OF 

terminate in death? Why did you fear the dislocation of a joint, 
the fracture of a bone, the loss of an eye, &lc. &:c. 

When you have left home on a journey, why have you had con- 
cern, and deep concern too, at the time of bidding your frier b 
farewell? And now you have come to the time, to the soul-trying, 
most heart-rendmg moment, when you must bid them a long, a 
long adieu, and take your final leave of them upon the eartli. 
W^hen in times past you left them on a journey, to go a great dis- 
tance, and he absent a considerable length of time, you felt con- 
cerned both for them and for yourself. You pondered and mused 
thus in your mind. ''1 now leave my friends and my home — I go 
a distance, to be gone some time, what may happen to them? what 
may happen to me? Some one or more of a thousand things 
may befall them, or me. They may be broken up, driven from 
their homes, and scattered abroad over the earth. They *iiay be 
sick. — They may die; and if I should live and return, I may find 
laot one of them to welcome me on my return. On the other 
liand, should disappointments and calamities fall upon me, in a 
distant land among strangers, far from the kind attention, and sooth- 
ing and encouraging smiles of dear and much loved friends, how 
will my heart then feel? W^ill it be possii^le for them ever to 
come to me? Shall we ever see each others' faces again, and in- 
terchange acts of kindness, and feelings of love? Shall we ever 
agnin enjoy eacli others' society, and be happy together." Thus 
you mused, — Thus you thought and felt, and thus your heart was 
moved, and you w^ere concerned. And" now you are about to 
leave them and the whole world, not knowing what will become 
of them — how many casualities and difficulties may happen to 
them, or whether it will ever be possible for them to come to you 
or not; but knowinii clearly and certainly, that you can never re- 
turn to them npoir the earth. And as clearly and certainly that 
they must die, but you have no knowledge, (or pretend to have 
none) whether, after their bodies shall die, it will be possible for 
you and them to meet again. You not only pretend to have no 
knowledcje, but no concern, whether you will live again or not, 
and if you do, whether or not vou will be happy. You are about 
to take this most serious, this lonsr, this last farewell, and go on 
that jo'irnev in which you will meet no back travellers, and which 
you Con yourself never retnce, and pretend neither to know nor 
core whither you are gfoins^, or what will become of you! How 
strange! how unaccountable is this! How entirely are you now 
unlike yourself — unlike what yon ever were before! In all pre- 
vious matters and dilHcnlties, and minor charigesj, you were very 
properly and very wisely concerned. You weie an intelligent 
and a feeling being. But now when you have come to the great 



change of clianges, the gipeatest of all changes that you ever an- 
ticipated upon the earth, and which of course ought to excite a 
concern, deeper than the deepest that ever before moved in your 
breast; }/qu tell us, both by words and actions, that vou have'no 
concern at all. We ask then, if you are still, and in this, an in- 
telligent and a feeling being? Is this worthy of yourself? Is it 
likea. human being, or like a brute? We ask again, all of us who 
are around you, and our reason and feelings unite, and most ear- 
nestly inquire of you, why you have no concern at this most seri- 
ous time? Is it because all mankind have always been, and are 
now without con(3ern, when they approach death? If y-ou think 
so, you cannot think any thing more incorrect and false. All 
inankind have, in all ages, and under all rircumsiances, civilized 
or uncivilized, learned and refined, or ignorant barbarian, wild 
and savage, possessed and exhibited the deepest concern, about 
what would become of them after death. The philosopher and 
the sage, have ever speculated about it, and drawn conclusions 
favoring the idea that man vvould live again. The wild man afid 
the savage have ever done the same, and said there would be 
better hunting in the world to which they were going beyond 
the grave. 

But perhaps you reply to us that the reason why you hav^ 
no concern about what will become of }ou after your death, is, 
that it is impossible for you to know anything on the subject. 
If you had been born on this continent, five hundred years ago, 
of Indian parents, you would have had, in tho judgment of men, 
some ground to have said so, but none in the judgment of God: 
see R .)m. 2d. Years and years ago, ^^our saviour Jesus Christ 
brought life and immortality to light through the gospel." How- 
ever much life and immortality may have before been in the dark, 
he set them fully in the light, and caused the liirht to shine round 
about them with great brightness through the gospel. And 
wherever the gospel goes, it is a bright sun, and in its centre 
men's eyes may see life and immortality in full shape and of 
the largest size, so large and so plainly presented to view that 
wh^)ever looks cannot fail to see; but some shut their eyes and 
do not look at this sun. They ► do not believe that they can 
there see life and immortality; and if you think and say that it 
is impossible for you to know any thing al out what will become 
of you after death, any thing about future lifj and immortality, 
it is because you shut your eyes and will not believe that life 
and immortality so plainly stare you in the face. 

Yau will not believe any thing that Jesus Christ has said 
concerning the invisible world itito which you are now going; 
will not believe the accounts and representations which he has 



1T4 (_ OSSOULTiOXS OF 

giren of heaven and hell; will not helieTe his sacied wotrds 
nor his mighty works, his many and beneYolent and astonish' 
ing signs and wonders which he wrought among all people, hi§ 
firiends and foes, during the sfmce of three whole years ; will 
not believe in his resorrection from the dead, and in his prcHn- 
ise and power to raise the bodies of all men; in his glorious 
ascension on high, and in his *^c<»ning with ten thoosand of his 
saints to execute judgment opon all.^ You will not leceiTe 
his advice when he says, ^fear not them which kill the body, 
hot are not able to kill the sonl ; bnt rather £ear him which is 
able to destroy both sonl and body in hell.^ Yon pretend not 
to know whether yon have a sooi at all or not; and if yon have, 
Toa do not pretend to know whether men or death itself can kill 
it, and do not believe that Crod can destroy bodi sonl and body 
in hell. 

Jf yoa believed these things, yon would now have, not only 
a concern, ba( a most anxioos concern. If you beloved that 
the Savioor told yon the troch when he told yon that you were 
immortal, yen woald be very desirous to know whether yoa 
would be imnoortally happy or immortalij miserhaie. 

And here let me tell you , my rich aMicted friend, if yon 
doubt, and do not believe, arid deny what Jesus Chnst has told 
you whesa he said yoa were immortah no cHie, as 1 have be- 
fine said, has plainly aad folly spoken this great tmth bat 
him, and to your view liie and immortality are not brought to 
light; and as joa do not know diat ^ou will live again, yoa do 
not Imow that joa will not. The one most be as much in the 
daik to jou as the other. You have no other means to know 
that yoa will luU be inunortal. than you have to know that yoa 
Tsill be immortal, I mean if you discard all evidence bat the 
evidence of 3 oar own senses. You have never been beyond 
death to discover by yoor own senses whether you cosld and 
would live or not. Aiid even, if yon wc old admit the testimony 
i>f others, none have ever corae back to tell us what they saw 
and telt bejond death, as I have already fiiUv shown in a foim^ 
pan of my book. 

Je^os Christ was God and man, hot as man and after the 
manner ot man, he made no comDiuoications to mankind on the 
satjeci of immortality. He did nor tell as that he either saw, 
or heard, or feit the feet, i>ut be loid as, as God, that he knew 
it; ht: told OS bj his own OKHith and by the month of his in- 
spired servants Thi> is \»- hat we are to believe, if we wish to 
ned ihai we are immortal; believing ihis, life and 
!« tulU troiight to light to os. Bat, liot to wander 
pomt, I would just fairer obs^re. that neitbef yoa 



^IIE AFFLICTEJ>. HS 

nor any other person, no matter how learned, can find any true, 
unsophisticated argument or chain of reasoning to show the 
impossibility of your being immortal. Many more and stronger 
arguments can be found to show the possibility of it. Such as 
this, you once had no life or being, but now you have. It was 
therefore possible for you to begin to be and live, and if it was 
possible for you to begin to be and live, is it not easier for a 
thing to continue to be than to begin to be? The conclusion 
is fair and without the least sophistry, that it is more possible 
for you to continue to be and live, than it was for you to com 
mence being and life. 

Upon the whole, 1 say therefore that you do not know, and 
eannot know, that you will not live again. You are, then, 
in uncertainty al)Out it; and what consolation is there in un- 
certainty? I cannot see how there can possibly be any. But 
I do know that uncertainty, even in the small affairs of life 
and time, generally produces very great perplexity and dis-* 
tress. What, then, must it be supposed to produce about the 
infiintely greater matters of life and immortality! 

1: is exceedingly ditBcult for us who are here around you, 
to believe that you have no concern about the consequences of 
death. It may be you pretend to have none, but at the same time 
realiy have a very deep concern. If this is the case, you had 
better he honest and candid, and just tell us your real feelings 
and condition that we may do all we can to administer conso- 
lation t) you; but I have before admitted that it was possible 
for you actually to have no concern, even at this time when 
you should have the most. 

If so, it is, as I have said, because you do not believe that 
Jesus Christ has brought life and immortality to ligth. And 
now the time has come for me to be very plain and honest, and 
sympathetic, and unreserved with yoi'. 

Accordingly, 1 now tell you my rich, afflicted, dying friend, 
that your not believing that Jesus Christ brought lite and im- 
mortality to li«.ht, does not make it untrue. It is no less true 
for the want of your faiih. No more than it would be untrue 
th it there ever existed such cities us Babylon, Jerusalem and 
Rome, or such men as Cyrus, Alexander the great, Augustus 
( aesar, INapoleon Buonaparte, or our father Washington, merely 
because you do not Leieve that there were such cities and such 
men. Your unbelief cannot destroy all that, or any of that evid- 
ence which presents this glorious and happy truth in full shape 
and size upon the broad face of the gospel sun. Others may see 
it you 10 shut your eyes. Every leaf of the sacred scriptures 
have stared you and all of us in the faccp and said,'- Who hath be 



» (b COXSOLATIOlXS Ofi 

Ueved our report?" You have answered, not !• We have 
aniwered, *'Lurd, to whom shall we go? thou hast the words of 
eternal life, and we believe and are sure that thou art tha^ 
Christ, the son of the living God," and thai thou hast brought 
life and immortality to light, through the gospel. Four unbe- 
lief can neither destroy the truth, nor the belief of the truth 
in us. We believe and are sure, that is, we know that Jesus 
Christ has brought life and immortality to light; that w'e, and 
all men, are immortal. No point has more abundant, more 
various, more clear or more decisive evidences concntering 
and combining to establish it. We have ever lived in the 
midst of this overwhelming evidence, and ^'oeen compassed 
about with a great cloud of witnesses;" and we have the wit- 
ness within ourselves. 

And we, thi^ day, this day of affliction and grief to you, stand 
around your sick and dying bed, with feehng, anxious, aching 
jiearts, and most solemnly repeat the two last things of those 
that v>'e have already told you w^ere said of the sick. The first 
of the two, is that frightful woe which rolled from the mouth of 
him who brought life and immortalit\" to light; ^'W^oe unto you 
that are rich I for ye have received your consolation." The 
other IS his story of the rich man who died and was buried, and 
in hell lifted up his eyes being in torments. 

You have received your consolation, then. You have been 
and are now rich. You may look back over the vvhole journey 
of your life, and reflect upon the consolations that you have 
received as you passed along. With the help of all your riches, 
I expect you will not see the whole to have amounted to much. 
And whatever you may see, the multiplicity, and the richness, 
and sweetness of your consolations to have been, they are now 
all gone by, and like the plentiful meals which you ate five and 
ten years ago, they neither do nor can give you any enjr^y- 
ment now. You have received your consolation. Thou, in 
thy lifetime, hast received thy good things. And you have 
now come to the end of your lifetime, and are about to receive 
no more good things. It is not now, and it never can be any 
consolation to you that you have had consolation. You are 
about to die, and no doubt be buried with great parade, and 
pomp, an4 show. Over jour dead body wih likely be raised 
a splendid monument or a huge mausoleum, with sjme high 
sounding epitaph inscribed upon it; it may stand for several 
generations, and those tliat pass may read your name there, 
and be reminded of your riches and greatness,, and may licar 
the story of all your extensive possessions and of these your 
grand and magnificent buildings. But the other part of the 



THE AFFLICTE35. 177 

serious story which I am now telling you, and which is as cer- 
tainly and undoubtedly before you [if you do not believe and 
repent] as it is certain and undoubted that you will die, is, that 
in heli you will lift up your eyes, being in torments. And you 
may see Abraham afar off w ith Lazarus in his bosom, in the 
company of all holy and happy angels and men; and you may 
cry and say, father Abraham, have mercy on me and send some 
Lazarus that he may dip the tip of his finger in water and cool 
my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame. But Abraham 
w^iil say, son, remember ihat thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy 
good things. And besides all this, between us and you there 
is a great gulf fixed, so that they which would pass from thence 
to you cannot; neither can they pass to us that would come from 
thence. And there you will be. Across that great, that vast, 
that impassable gulf you can never pass. 

And I will tell you what makes me believe, and be sure, and 
know, and be satisfied that you will be there in torments, and 
never be able to pass that tremendous gulf. Because Jesus 
Christ did prove himself in many ways to be a great being, the 
son of God, yea himself to be God, by curing all manner cf dis- 
eases, by working thousands of benevolent miracles, by restor- 
ing the dead to life, by saying to the sea and to the winds, 
'* peace, be still! and the winds ceased and there was a great 
calm, the winds and and the sea obeyed him ;'' by telling men 
their thoughts; by fortelling things to come, which actually did 
come to pass, particularly the state of the Jews, which are a 
kind of standing miracle; and finally because he always did 
tell the truth and alwa\s v/ill, and .cannot lie: he said, '^heaven 
and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass aw^ay ;" 
and he said, if you believe not on him, you shall lift up your 
eyes there in torments, and be there and never be able to pass 
that awful gulf; and it will be true, it zn'ill be so, it will, it will, 
I say. This present world is a place of much wretchedness, 
misery and wo. You have seen it with your eyes: you have 
been in the midst of it; you have felt it, you now feel it, and 
feel it severely too. You have often thought, when you have 
been witnessing and feeling this misery and vvo, of the power 
oi God, and felt surprised and wondered why he did not stretch 
out his strong, mighty and almighty rii^ht arm, and deliver your- 
self and others from the pams and agonies which you were en- 
during. Yea, you have wondered vviiy he did not deliver and 
make happy this groaning world. But you see he does not do 
it. The pl;iin reason he has given is, because all have sinned. 
Therefore he lets them suffer. Therefore he lets you sufiel* 
imd will let you suffer, even unto doathj and will let vou lift 

15* 



}7S C^ONSOLATIOIVS Of 

up your eyes being in torments, beyond the impassable gulf^ 
''A God all mercy would be a God unjust." His mercj does 
not reach }'cu now to such an extent and to such a degree as to 
ward off from you all suff;:;ring and misery. He sees you lying, 
and groaning, and languishing on this bed, and does not come 
nigh to help and deliver you from these present, moderate, incon- 
siderable sufferings. It is not inconsistent with all the goodness 
of his nature, his kindness, his tenderness, his great pity, and 
amazing love, and conde!=»cension, thus to look upon you at this 
moment. And if you resist and reject all this his goodness, this 
boundless love of his, with which he ''so loved the world that he 
gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him 
should not perish, but have everlasting life;*' he will look upon 
you being in torments, beyond the impassable gulf, and none of 
all the goodness of his nature will bemoved towards you at any 
period or in any degree, but the greatness of his power and ven- 
geance will be unchangeably set against you. This he has de- 
clared, and this he will make good. It will be as true, and as 
certain, and as real as any of al} the things which you have aU 
ready experienced and felt, or which } ou now experience and feeL 
But this you do not believe. God has already done, not only 
many things, but a great many things, and very weighty and im- 
portant things, things exceedingly condescending and kind, to 
induce and incline, and persuade you to believe it. He has 
given you the most striking evidence. He has set before you 
a body of the most commanding and irresistible evidence, 
which evidence is of long standing and of imperishable cha- 
racter, was given to your forefathers from generations imme- 
morial, and has been increasing in strenght and clearness ever 
since it was first given. He has ever surrounded you with 
*'a cloud of witnesses,-' who have continually told you that they 
believed, and knew, and felt it to be true, that God would do 
what he has said he would do. He has set before you many 
and various motives, motives of the highest and most weighty 
character. Those that were terrible to the most frightful ex- 
tent; and those that were alluring and captivating beyond ex- 
pression. He has set before you hell with all its horrors, and 
heaven with all its glories and happiness. And all these things 
he has done for your g >od ; to induce and cause you to believe what 
he feay«, and to act towards lum as you ought to do; and by so 
doing to shun everlastmg misery and gam everlastmg happuicss. 
And now my rich, but languishing fellow mortal, I feel my- 
self prompted , constrained and urged, by the weight of all this 
evidence resting upon my inind, and by ail these tremendous 
<ind solemn motives affecting and moving my heart, by know- 




THE" AFFLICTED. 179 

ing both the terrors and the love of the Lord, to persuade and 
pray you, even yet, at this kite hour, to be reconciled unto God. 
I have already told you God's way, and his only way, to be 
reconciled unto him ,• and that way is through Christ. " Other 
foundation can no nrian lay, than that is laid, which is Jesus 
Christ.*" Another way can no man find, than that is found, 
which is Jesus Christ. And here lei me tell you — and my 
heart rejoices, and greatly rejoices to be able to tell you — that 
it is possible to iind this way , both easily and quickly, even in 
a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. So Matthew the pub- 
lican found it. So Zaccheus, who climbed the tree, found it; 
and many others, but most strikingly of all, the dying thief. — 
And you. — O my heart is moved, and melts with tenderness 
and sympathy while I stand over your pale and emaciated body 
and speak it! and so you may find it, even yet. What you 
have to do I will now plainly tell you. Immediately let your 
riches go — give them up — turn your eyes from them—unrivet 
y.our affections from them, and " set your affections not on 
things below , but on things above;" and be truly sorrowful that 
you have let these things below occupy and engross so much 
of your time and attention, and esteem; and be entirely willing 
to surrender them up to be disposed of by God as he may think 
best, not to be thrown away and lost, but to be used for His 
own glory. You must now be willing to give up all earthly 
things and considerations, '*your houses, your brethren, your 
sisters, your father, your mother, your wife, your children, and 
your lands, for the name's sake of Jesus Christ, that you may 
receive an hundred fold, and inherit eternal life." You must 
be as willing to do this, and even more willing, than he who is 
owner and commander of a ship is, in time of a storm, to cast 
overboard the lading of his ship, not only those articles which 
are less valuable, but the more valuable, and the most valuable, 
yea, the whole, even to the last one, in order to save his life. 
You must deny yourself, not only in part, but entirely. Further, 
you must ''cast down your imaginations, and every high thing 
in you, that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God, and 
bring into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ. 
You must go out of yourself into Christ, and then you will be in 
God's way of v^^alvation. All y»>ur unbelief must die away and 
perish, and your soul must fill with faith, with strong faith; you 
must believe in Jesus Christ with your whole soul Your haid 
heart must be softened and melted, and wrung with sorrow 
for all your sins and iniqwilies, your crinies and fol!ies;and 
you must, with grief and hatred of them, turn from them unto 
Gud fill your exalted views and notions of your superiority 



180 CONSOLATIONS ap 

and greatnes??, wh'VH your riches begot in you, must vanish.— 
Y'»ur ideas of having noble blood must fly away. And if you 
had a strong mind, and have received a good education, and are 
a learned person, you must consider your learning as nothing. 
'^Verily I say unto 3^ou, whosoever shall not receive the king- 
dom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein." — 
♦^Except you be converted, and become as a little child, you 
shall not enter into the Kingdom of Heaven." Not the most 
distant thought or feeling must remain about you that you are' 
more acceptable in the sight of God on account of your wealth, 
your knowledge, your power, or your influence. You must 
remember that Jesus Christ came *'not to call the righteous 
but binners to repentance. That the whole need not a physician^ 
but they that are sick." And you must bear m mind, and let 
it sink deeply into your mind, that he went unto the multitude — 
that he taught the multitude, miLgling with them, and sat down 
to eat with publicans and sinners. You must, therefore, con- 
sider and feel yourself sick in soul as well as in body — sin sick, 
diseased by sin, and now be induced most hastily to apply to 
the great Physician of soals, and most humbly to beg of Him, 
to heal your souL Because he was not great after the manner 
of men, was not a general, prince nor king, you must not des- 
pise him; he must not therefore be unto you a stumbling block, 
nor foolishness, but you must c^ nsider him as he really is — 
^' the power of G^d and the wisdom of God;" and he must be 
made unto tjou, wisdom, and righteousness, and sanctification, 
and redemption: that according as it is written, "he thatglori- 
eth, let him glory in the Lord." Thus you must glnry, and 
not in yourself. And because Christ's people have generally 
been and are now p'>or and b»wiy, of the lower and lowest or^ 
ders of men, you must not be ashamed of them, and thereby be 
deterred from confessing Christ before men; you must not be 
ashamed of Christ, nor ashamed in any way, on any account, 
or in any degree, to confess him before men — for he himself 
has said — *• Whosoever therefore shall be ashamed of me and 
of my words, in ihis adulterous and sinful generation; of him 
also shall ihe Son of Man be ashamed, v^hen he cometh in the 
glory of hi- Father, with the holy angels." 

Upon the whole then, you must not let unbelief, or hardness 
of heart, shame or fear, enemies visible or invisible, bad men or 
devils, deter and stop you from coming unto Christ. You must^^ 
I repeat it, and with emphasis too, — go out of yourself into 
Christ, and then you will be in God's way of salvation; and 
then, and only then, you will find consolation, which was the 
t^ing to be found. Taking this advico and this course, my 



THE AFFLICTED. 181 

dear friend, yoa will not only find consolationj but a fountaiti 
of consolation. You will be a christian right away. The 
Christian's hope will be yours, and all his encouragements 
and supports; and all his high and holy and happy and glori- 
ous prospects will open before you ; such as I have described 
them in the first two parts of my book, to which you may then 
look, and in which you may read, and as you read, may con- 
sider yourself the person addressed, using either the first or se- 
cond according to the disease which is upon you. Being thus 
and doing thus, you will lay up for yourself, ''treasures in hea- 
A^en, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where 
thieves do not break through nor steal,'"' and I may add wher^s 
you will not be torn away from your treasures by death. You 
will thus secure unto yourself a title ^'to an inheritance incor- 
ruptible, and undefiied, and that fadeth not away, reserved in 
heaven for you." A title to lands in the heavenly Canaan, and 
not only to lands but to mansions too. A title signed, sealed 
and delivered by the hand ©f the eternal God hmiself, and se- 
' curing unto you the highest and most valuable possessions oj 
inheritance that is possible for you to have and hold in all his 
universe. Having secured this title, which as 1 Jiave shown, 
you may do even in a moment of time, you will not die and be 
buried and in hell lift up your ^yes being in torments. — 
You will die, it is true, and leave these possessions which yoti 
now hold, but as you die 

^' Will read your title clear * 

To mansions in the skies, 
And bid farewell to every fear, 
And wipe your weeping eyes."" 

Your fellow mortals will carry your dead body out of thia 
your earthly mansion, and kind kindred angels will carry yuur 
living spirit into the heavenly mansions. I bid you an afiec- 
tionate farewell. June {jih, 1830. 

Note, — If I attempt at this moment to express the gratitude 
which 1 feel to G >d for enabling me to advance thus far, under 
my very great bodily weakness and through ten thousand ia- 
terruptions, in writing the Cons<Jatii>ns of the Atliicted, I know 
I shall utterly fail to express what I feel. I am encouraged to 
b«>pe that as he has upheld and strengthened me thus far, ho 
wi!i at least continue my little strength and sustain me nil I 
accomplish my whole plan, my whole work of sympathy and 
benevolence for the afflicted. Should i not, but die, may sur> 



182 f:ONSOLATIONS 0> 

vivors print what is done for the good of mankind. I have yet 
to write for the Stran«;er — I he Aged — Those afflicted by the 
alHictions of others — and the Mchmcholy. 

"The author's life was at this time threatened by a periodical 
disease." 



FOR THE STRANGER IN AFFLICTION. 

At the discovery of America, by the Europeans, it was very 
watnrally and very properly called the *^iNew W<n'ld." It was 
a new and » xtraordinary degree of courage in an uncomni'mly 
bold and adventuring man, (viz.) Columbus, which bore liim 
up on the trackless and frightful bosom of the ocean, until his 
e\es beheld this ''New World," afld his feet stepped out up;»n 
it. And, as it was an adventuring and explormg spirit which 
discovered its shores, it hi s been :ind is still the same spirit 
whi< h pervades and explores the whole of its vast interior. Its 
towns, and villages, and cities, particularly in the West, are 
yet remote from one another: therefore its commerce, which 
is considerable, requires much travelling by land and ^vater. 
From these and other ca<?ses a considerable part of our popu- 
lation leave the h- rnes of their infancy and youth, the bosoms 
of the families in \(hich they have lo?»g enjoyed the society 
and assistance of rej:i(i( ns and friends, and go h.indreds and 
tho\isauds of mi es in ser. ich of some gain, or some new home 
in a newer and m >re untried part of this.** New World."" 

S^mie parts are m')re healthful than others: on this account, 
travellers are very frequently taken sick from home. There 
are many (>ther causes i f their sickness besides ihe difference 
of climates. Two climates mav he ecpially healthf i',and yet 
persons g')ing from one to the other may fill a prey to disease. 
The I'rea'hiug of air. the drinkmg of water, the eatiufij of fjod 
to which ihey are not accustomed, will generally h'vve a new 
effect ei'hi r good or bad, but more cc^nnntnily bad. The priva- 
tions and exposures to w Inch thc^y are liable in journeying from 
place to place are fd lowed by the sam-^ undesirable consequen- 
ces; besides the state of the mind will have *! powerful influ- 
ence eiJh^n- good or bad. Is the mind entertained, pleased, 
deligh ed with the si^ht of new towns, cities and villages, and 
new si-ctions (4' country, all hnvinij: their peculiarities, this will 
be coaducive logood hoaith. Oil the other hand, are uufavor- 



yHE AFFLICTED. 1^ 

uble impressions made upon the mind, and does it not take de- 
light in the scenes it beholds, and the condition it is in, bad 
health and sickness may be the consequences. Nostalgia, or 
being *'home sick," (according to the popular phrase) may pro- 
duce actual bodily sickness, and lastly, becoming penny less, or 
moneyless, in a land of strangers, may sicken the heart, the 
body, the soul, the whole being. 

Because it is not a common thing for females to travel a dis- 
tance, unaccompanied by friends or relations, and further, be-^ 
cause it is not so common for married men to leave their fami- 
lies and take long journeys, as it is for young unmarried men, 
the class of mankind for which 1 now write is less numerous 
than any which I have yet attempted to console in their afflic- 
tions. 1 shall, therefore, be the more brief; and although I 
shall have mainly in view travelling adventuring young men, 
I shall attempt so to shape my address as to make it applicable 
as heretofore, to all ages and both sexes. 

Because persons cannot remain a length of time in one place 
and still be strangers, without acquaintances and without 
friends, and because chronic patients may be in a complaining 
condition for years, and thus cease lo be strangers, or even 
work their way from the land of strangers to their former 
. home and friends, the patients whom I shall now proceed to 
• address are those who are attacked vyith sudden, and violent, 
and periodical sickness. SjcIi attacks upon strangers are 
much more common than upon settled and permanent citizens; 
and far more frequent in the southern parts of our country than 
in the northern and eastern: so much so, that certain sections 
and cities of the sounh have, with considerable propriety, been 
called the graveyards of the north, particularly that great com- 
mercial depot, New Orleans. Multitudes, multitudes of our 
most healthy 5 robust and hardy sons of the north , go down to the 
south seeking their fortune, but instead thereof find a bed of 
dreudful sickness, and iu many instances, a premature and 
unhappy death in a strange land, 

Aidicted stranger! sickness and trouble have overtaken you 
in a land of strangers; you are where no faces are kuv^wn to 
you, and yours to none. Prompted by the same tender, deep, 
liveiy and active sympaihy which has moved me to attempt to 
console others, an >i urged on by the same extensive, far travel- 
ling, wide raagiiig, comprehensive benevolence, which hastens 
in all directions, to all lengths, and to all places, to relievo ihe 
miserable, I have l<)llowed you iu ii\i your journevin^s, tvcroas 
moantaiiis and plains, ihrou^h deserts, and wiih -no '»irsesof 
the meandering rivers, into this remote country, and evca into 



I 



184 eONSOlLATIONS OF 

this sick chamber where you now lie. . No trivial errand has 
t)rought me thus far. No selfish, sordid motive has been the 
influencing and exciting impulse. I come on an errand of love 
and pity, to do you good. To attempt to quiet and calm and 
encourage your drooping spirits. To pour into your afflicted, 
lonely and forlorn bosom some healing balm, some reviving 
cordial, some real consolation. 

Here you lie, far from home, far from friends. No father, 
or mother, or bother, or sister, or loving wife is here; long 
rivers flow and huge mountains stand between you and them; 
their faces smile not, and shine not upon you; their hands min- 
ister not to your necessities; their gentle voices speak not, whis- 
per not kind and cheering words into your ear; the fireside and 
door-yard scenes of much loved home are not now before your 
eyes; all things around are new and strange and more or less 
dismal; glooms hover over you; your eyes weep; your heart is 
pensive and sad ; you are disconsolate. I have already said all 
lean for you on all points save one, and that is the point or fact 
of your being a stranger. To this point it is my special object 
now to direct my attention. ' 

There will be the utmost propriety in my making my com- 
munications to you in private ; because it will be my special 
business to tell you how to feel and act towards these strangers 
who are around you. I will therefore close and bolt the door " 
for an hour or two. 

And now, my friend, 1 must tell you that 1 well know the 
thoughts and feelings of your soul, the secret and sorrowful 
workings of your lonely heart. You lie here upon this bed 
and think and ponder. Your thoughts arfd desiies go back — 
they retrace your whole journey and linger about that home 
you left, now dear enough if never before. Your heart fills 
and overflows, and you inwardly exclaim — '*0 that I were this 
moment \vithin the doors of that well known and long known 
house, and surrounded by those dear relations and friends in 
the circle of whom I have so long been, and for the more part 
been helssed and happy ^' The object which brought you here 
now appears trivial and trifling, if not altogether delusive and 
h-aieful. Perhaps you bin me yourself most bitterly for pursu- 
ing it tiil it led you into this your present doleful place and con- 
dition. ' In all probability this you may do very j jstly. If" so, 
and almost whether or not, you now lose sight of it. I: Vijn- 
ishesfr>m your view, and you can see nothing hut the scenes of 
home, home; and there your spirit longs to he, in this your sick- 
ness; and if by it you are called and compelled to die, it i^ not 
only your choice to die there; but your strongest- most intense 



andaltogether inexpressible desire to be indulged with the high 
privilege of taking there your last look upon the scenes of earth, 
and ihe last things to be seen in that look to be the surrounding 
faces and eyes of your dear friends locking your departing spirit 
away, away^ to your long, your eternal home. 

But my friend, you are here, and things are as they are, and 
you must make the best you cai>of them. It would be ignorance 
and presumption in you to expect to be as well treated by these 
strangers as you would be by those who are bone of your bone 
and flesh of your flesh. You must bear in mind that before you 
arrived here these people had, each one, their own business to 
£ittend to; and you must consider further, that to nurse and wait 
on a diseased person is one of the most unpleasant and disa- 
gi-eeable duties that mortals have to perform f^r one another. 
This is the case when the disease is not contagious or catching, 
and how much more so when the person who nurses is contia- 
yally in danger of taking the same disease. 

The b«st rule by which to measure your expectations, is that 
which, from its unequalled excellence as well as from its or- 
igin, has obtained the name among mankind of ''the Golden 
Kule." ''AH things whatsoever ye would that men should do 
unto you, do ye even so unto them."' In short, "do as you 
would be done by." 

Jn order properly to apply -this rule and to make the best use 
of it, you would do well to suppose yourself at home busily 
employed in doing your own work, and further, that some one 
of these strangers should call at your house and be taken sick. 
Perhaps you would feel it no small task in that case to drop 
your own affairs and devote yourself to nursing and waiting on 
a diseased and loathsome stranger. By this application of this 
best of rules, which is the only proper application, you may be 
very considerably guarded and guided in your hopes and expec- 
tations from these strangers. 

If upon change of circumstances you would have to contend 
with a good deal of reluctance in your own breast to nurse 
them, you need not be surprised that they have to contend with 
the same to nurse you. That they will do it at all should be 
a matter of great thankfulness on your part. As it respects 
deeds of kindness and charity, there is a great difference not 
only between mdividuals, but families. This difference may 
arise out of a multitude of things, such as knowledge and expe- 
rience in nursing the sick; having means to do it, and lastly 
possessing a humane and charitable disposition of mind. But 
if these strangers possess all these advantages, and these worthy 
^nd amiable Uaits of caracter, and arc disposod to do all they 

16 



186' fcOl^S^OLATIONS^ (J¥ 

can for you, in vain will you expect to be as well attended n^ 
you would be by those who are bound to you by the ties of 
nature and friendship. Should they obey the doctor's orders 
carelessly — neglect to give your medicine or nourishment at 
the proper time, and do it very awkwardly when /hey do do it; 
should they not keep you clean, should those of them who 
pretend and attempt to watch with you and wait on y< u at 
night, fail asleep and snore so as by their snonngs to add to 
your distresses instead of alleviating them by their vigilance 
and faithfulness, you need not be surprised at any or all of these 
things. It is truly a serious, ince^^sant. irksome, fatiguing and 
exhausting busmess to nurse a person that is very sivk as it 
ought to be done, it req lires no less vigilance and affection 
and skill than a tender mother gives to her infant ten days old. 
Ever)' symptom, and the slightest change for the better or the 
worse should be observed and attended to, the moment it appears. 
More strong affection, more sleepless and ceaseless attention, 
and entire and unreserved «;evotedness can be found no where 
than in the breast of a kind mother towards her infant. And yet 
the question is asked ''can a w jnian f >rget her suv^king child, 
that she should not have compassion on the son of her vvonib? 
yea, she may forget.'" if, then, even a mother can forget, how 
mu( h more canbihers, and most of all, strangers. 

One of the best things or aids which you can have is money. 
1 do not say it is the best, but one of the best. M^you have it,tiow 
is the time to use it. This you should do in the most prudent 
way. Let all around you know that you are able and willing to 
compensate them in a proper and reasonable way. Do not 
excite their avarice, for it is possible they may neglect you and let 
you die, in order to get your money. Be cautious and wise m the 
management of it, and every other thing about you. I shall not 
enter into minute particulars, but remind you that, good and 
useful as money is, it is not love, and it may fail to buy love^ 
9r if it buys, may buy nothing but a base, selfish, sordid love. 

There is one great thing or matter of which I must not fliil to 
gpeak, and that thing is character. If you have ventured to come 
so far from home as you have without some testimonials of good 
character, souje papers from three or four or more men extensive- 
ly known, and of good moral character themselves you have done 
very wrong. 

But perhaps you are ready to say to me, that these cannot be 
inown so far from hon^e. Do not be mistaken my friend, there is 
a great deal of travelling '}n America, and there is scarcely an in* 
iiabited corner in it, in which nothing at all has been heard or 
Icnowa of such men. And even if they had never been heard of 



THE APPLICTEri. 18*1 

here, that would not prove that there are no such men. But it 
m ly be you would say further, that if there were such men and 
known ail the way to this place, papers from them might do you 
little or no good. People might doubt whether these men ever 
gave you such pipers, and might inspect that you forged them. I 
know that bad men have forged papers and thus imposed on stran- 
gers. But this has not occured very frequently, and when they 
have done it their object has been to gain money rather than char- 
acter, or if it was to gain character and credit, they most likely 
designed by having credit to gain money. You should have 
brought papers with you to have gained the treatment v/bich is 
due to an honest, decent and virtuous person. But perhaps with 
you, this was not the fact, and you had no such character at 
liome, but instead of having a good character actually had a bad 
one, and could not have obtained good papers without forging 
them. If so, the defect or fault was farther back, and as much 
greater, as farther back. You should never have lived in such a 
manner as to have gained a bad name, or bad character, instead 
of a good one. If this was your standing in society at home, 
your present condition is truly deplorable. No person should live 
in such a manner as to have any fear to be known any where. 
And every person who travels a distance, whether he be a public 
or private character, or professional persnn, a merchant, a mechan- 
ic or a common laborer, should be perfectly willing to be known 
at any place. Not only so, but he should be desirous to be known , 
so much so as always to procure papers of recommendation and 
take them with him. And he should show by his countenance 
and conduct, as well as by his papers, that he is an honest, virtu* 
ous and worthy person. That there are dishonest persons and 
deceivers, should be no discouragement to the honest and virtu- 
ous, and should not deter them from doing their duty. And it is 
not only their duty but their interest to be known. "A good 
name is better than precious ointment. A good name is rather to 
be chosen tiian great riches." 

But you say you have papers of recommendation and good 
ones too. If so let me see them. T will read them and examine 
thefn carefully. Truly they speak very well for you, and appear 
to be all right. They contain every thing that is necessary, and 
there appears to be nothing wanting. The whole face of them 
appears also to speak the truth, and to be no deception. They 
are just what you now need, my friend, and I am now prepared to 
speak unto yoti with greater confidence, words of consolation. 
Your course is plain, if you have not already exhibited them, <ake 
the very next opportunity to show them to these strangers among . 
whom it is your lot to be cast and confined to a bed of sicknes?. 



1§8 co:nsolations of 

Lei me now advise and urge you to prove j'ourself to be wonhi 
of such papers by ever}^ act you may put forth, by every word yoiT 
may speak, and eveiT look of your countenance. Let every act. 
word and look be mild and modest. Exhibit all the patience you 
Can possibly, and manifest a great degree of reserve in your de» 
mands and requirements of them. Get along with as little wait- 
ing on and attention as possible, not to do yourself too much 
injur}' by doing without things that are actually necessary for 
you. Show them that you have very tender feelings for them, and 
will spare them as much as the nature of your case will admit. By 
acting thus they will think more of you, and more highly esteem 
your character; you will gain their love, and this being gained, 
their care for you, and devotedness to you, will be secured. 
Should you pursue a course contrary to this, you would incur^ 
and justly too, their ill w^ill, neglect and abuse. Whereas, by ob- 
serving the polite, gentle, humble and conciliatory course, which 
I so fully and highly recommend to you, you can scarcely fail to 
,gain their most decided good will and affection. 

I have nothing more to say to you at present, I will now open 
the door and call in the family, and say what I can to them, to in- 
cline them to deal favoraoly, and faithfully, and kindly by you. 
They are good enough to drop their work and come, and are all 
present. My friends, you see this poor sick mortal whom the 
providence of God has cast in among you, and confined to this 
bed of sickness. He is far from home and friends, as he has al- 
ready told you, but this is a time with him when he peculiarly and 
greatly needs lx)th. And to you, gentle strangers, I must say this 
is the time, and here is the opportunity for you to show your hos- 
pitality, goodness and charity. If you have tender hearts, if you 
have bowels of mercy and compassion, now is the time tor them 
fo move and yearn over this lonely and forlorn child of sickness 
and sorrow. For your encouragement I would inform you, that 
he i^s not without papers of recommendation, which show who 
and what he was at home. To all appearance the papers are 
good. They purport to be signed by several public men. The 
mail's countenance, and the simplicity of his conversation seem 
to corroborate the testimony which the papers afford. Cpon the 
whole I think we may safely consider him to be a decent and re- 
spectable character. A person who i^espects himself, and should 
therefore be respected. Here are the papers, you can look at thorn 
at your leisure, after you shall ha\e heard what few more things I 
Iiave to say concerning him. J would just remind you, kind stran- 
gers, that if this person could produce no written evidence of 
whatever kind, to prove himself to be worthy of attention, by his 
countenance, his appearance, his words or conduct: yea, v»sre ii 



THE AFFLICTED. 189 

manifest from all these sources, and from the disease which is 
upon him, thai he has no claims at all to good character, but is a 
person of notorious bad character, still it would be your duty for 
humanity's sake, to have pity upon and take care of him. But as 
I have shewn you this is far from being the case, and there will be 
the greatest propriety in your striving to do so well by him that no 
body could do better. 

In the management of this forlorn stranger, as i\ respects your- 
selves, much is involved. Your reputation among your neighbors 
and mankind in general. The future approbation of your own 
consciences, w^hen you shall look back upon the scene which you 
are now passing through, will depend upon your faithfulness at 
the present time. And what is most and highest of all, the appro- 
bation and praise of God himself If then you would act in such 
a manner as to be able to say with pious Job — "The stranger did 
not lodge in the street, but 1 opened my door to the traveller,^' 
look well to what you now do. There is a high command of the High- 
est, long ago given, which reads thus — "The stranger that d welleth 
with you, shall be unto you as one born among you, and thou 
shalt love him as thyself." Would you observe this command in 
all its breadth and length, you would make yourselves, in your feel- ^ 
ings and in your efforts, brothers and sisters unto this poor suffer- 
ing, travelling stranger. You will love him as yourselves. You 
will consider that it is as hard for him to be sick as one of your- 
selves — that he can suffer as much, and that his sufferings are as 
great to him, as such would be to you, and even more, as he is in 
a land of strangers. My dear hospitable strang< rs. I now feel confi- 
dent that you will do so well and so much for this sick, this lonely 
and disconsolate traveller, that at the end it may indeed be safely said 
that none could have done more. But should you, it would not still 
be equal to the attention and care of relations. For this there is no 
substitute, no equal, in all the earth, amoncr all the sons of men. 
Nevertheless be not discouraged, come as near to it as you can. Try 
to thinkof every thing that will in the least minister to his relief 
and comfort. Write letters to his friends, if he wishes you to do no. 
Request the neighbors to come in and see him;, particularly the 
decent, the virtuous and the pious; that they may converse with 
him, and revive and encourage him. And here l would subjoin a 

— Caution which I always consider important, yes indispensible. 

H'The caution is, for you to prevent his being injured and oppressed 
by too much company. Sick persons are very frequently much 
injured by the superabundant kindness and over officit.usness of 
ignorant and talkative visitors. Do not trust him to be nursed by 
hired men or slaves. It will be the doctor^s dutv to keep an eve 

16* 



i^ 



190 CONSOLATIONS OP 



. 



over you, an^^ iio leFS yours to keep an eye over him, to* see that 
he is faithful, especially as the patient is a stranger. 

Upon the whole, my very dear, kind-hearted and hospitable stran- 
gers, I shall now rest assured that you are fully inclined and pre- 
pared to do all that is in your power to aid this poor sick mortal. 
When you see him turning, and writhing, and tossing, and 
hear him groaning with pain, go to him, and feel for him, 
and let him see that you do feel for him. ^hen you 
see the tears of sorrow and anguish rolling down his pale, feeble 
and disconsolate cheeks, gently wipe them away and sympathize 
with him. When you see hope upon the summit of his coimte- 
n'lnce, rising and threatening to mount upon the wnng, to take its 
departure and flight, and the glooms of discouragenient and des* 
pondency gathering to take the seat it has hitherto retained, then 
draw nigh and smile, smile pleasantly, and speak familiar and 
most affectionate words, reviving words, words of life, and thus 
draw back and detain departing hope, that it may ag.ain brighten 
his countenance, and revive and strengthen his heart,. And last- 
ly, should it be the appointment of kind heaven, for you to see 
his feeble head drooping, and fainting^, and sinking, and to feel 
his hand becoming cold, and his pulse to be '*faint and few,^ 
stand over him, and let your countenances appear calm, and com- 
posed, and pleasant, and speak to him mildly,. but with great con- 
fidence of the great God and of the Saviour "who is mighty to save, 
even unto the uttermost, all that come unto God by him," and 
advise him peacefully, and with unshaken confidence to sink into 
the arms of this mighty Saviour. Do all these things I say, if 
you should be called to them, and look not fjr your reward on 
earth, but look for your reward on high, at the hand of him who 
will say — "I was a stranger, and ye took me in. I was sick and 
ye visited me.'' And who has already said — "Whosoever shall 
oivc to drink unto one of these little ones^ a cup of cold water 
only in the name of a disciple, verily 1 say unto you, he shall in 
no wise lose his reward." 

And nov.7, patient, I must subjoin a few more words to you^ 
before I take my leave and depart. It cannot be that I have yet 
discharged all my duty to you. I have said every thing that oc- 
curred to my mind, which [ thought worth saying, on the subject 
of your being a sick stranger among strangers, but you are a 
v>€ry sick stranger, and there is quite a high probability that you 
will not recover nor return to your earthly home and friends, and 
1 have yet made no inquiry of you, and not said a w'ord to you 
about your seeking another and better and more lasting home in 
the world to come. This I must certainly do, or fail to acconn 
\»l!ska main part of my work of eoR&datioif!. I havo undertaken^ 



THH AFPLICTEDr f 9t 

lo console the afflicted in view of life or der\th. And unless you 
ean give me good, and strong, and satisfactory reasoiia why you 
should not be spoken to on the subject of death, and while your 
strength is greater than it may be before many days, I think my 
kindness and regard for you should not stop here, but 1 should 
proceed with all tenderness and faithfulness to do it. Unless you 
can prove to me that y' u are a being, an animal altogether different 
from other human animals, and have no foresight or forelooking 
to the future, that you are a being without feehng, hopes or fears; 
and this I think you cannot do. And if I speak to you at all, to 
console and encourage you, in view of what is beyond death, 
there is no thing or being of which, in all my travels, and studies, 
and researches, I have been able to make the least discovery, 
out of which, or whom, strong and satisfactory consolation can 
arise,, biut our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ the Son of the 
living God. He, and He only, is the dying man's hope. It will 
be unnecessary for me to speak to you of Him at length. There 
is no way in which I could do it, without repeating more. or less 
of what I have already said to others. To that, any, or all of it, 
I now refer you. 

But my friend, there is one view of your case and condition 
which I think it highly proper and desirable to present to you 
before I leave you. And this is the thought, that you are not 
only a stranger in this part of the world, but a stranger in all tlie 
world, even if you were at home. A considerable number of the 
best men of whom we have ever heard or had any knowledge, 
and who lived longer than it is common for men to live in oor 
day, confessed tliemselves to be ^-strangers and pilgrims on 
the earth.'' "They desired a better country, that is, a heavenly: 
wherefore God is not ashamed tabe called their God: for he hath 
prepared for them a city'' — that is, another home, and a fine one, 
a city. Should you get worse, your pains become greater, and 
your symptoms more alarming, and should you by dreadful sick- 
ness lose sight of that home to which your thoughts tend and 
centre, like the needle to the pole; and after which your heart 
greatly and steadily longs, then realize and be sensible that you 
are indeed a sojourner, a stranger and a pilgrim on the earth — 
that you "have here no continuing city, and seek one to come." 
Lift your thoughts, and the longingsof your heart, above the earth, 
ami look dt)wn upon the earth as a place where strangers, wayfaring 
men turn aside to tarry for a short season, and thus consider it no 
great mitter whether you ever see your old home again or not,- 
and let your thoughts and desires centre upon a higher and better 
home, "h city which hath foundations, whose builder and mnkep 
is God^" a heavenly and happy homo. Ajad rejoice* O tbou?i 



19^ CONSOLATIONS OF 

stranger! thou afBicted stranger! that though thou art a stranger 
here to men, thou m*iyest not be a stranger to God. God is a 
stranger, no where; He is in all places; He is every where. He 
can draw nigh here as hastily and help you, and comfort, and 
encourage, and support you, living or dying, as effectually as he 
could if you were at home. "God is no respecter of persons : 
but in every nation he that feareth him, and worketh righteousness, 
is accepted of him." In every nation, and of course in all parts 
and places of every nation. As well here where you are now, as 
in the place from which you came. And let it be all that encour- 
agement you n3ed, that it is written — "Whosoever shall call upon 
the name of the Lord shall be saved." At the same time be care- 
ful to call in a proper manner, with all your heart, feeling your 
need of salvation, and your utter helplessness to save yourself; 
for it is also written— "Not every one that saith unto me. Lord, 
Lord, shall enter into the kkigdom of heaven." Call then, upon 
the name of the Lord wuth your whole soul, and you shall be 
saved.. And thus you may find consolation in this strange land, 
living or dying, which was the thing to be found, and which 
brings me to a close of all 1 undertook for you. And now, af- 
flicted stranger, I bid you farewell, and go on my way to console 
others. 

July Ibth, 1830. 



FOR THE AGED IN AFFLICTION. 



1 



So many are the ills and calamities of life, so many are the 
afflictions of the youth and of the middle aged, that but a small 
part of the human family arrive at old age, — but very few are 
permitted to number three score years and ten. Here I feel it 
necessary again to say, that this is a world of sin and therefore of 
misery. Because all have sinned, there is no reason why we 
should wonder that the great body of mankind should be afflicted, 
and distressed, and smitten, and cut off in the earlier stages of 
life. Such IS he fact however, and the more mournful part of it 
is, that a large majority of these do not arrive at the prime of 
life. 

Notwithstanding a few of the whole are permitted 1o advance 
not only to the prime, but to go beyond to old age. 1 do not pre- 
tend in this work, to fix an exact limit at which persons become 
old. I sh ill speak of them ns advanced in years. It is for the 
afflicted amontr those for whom I now purpose to seek consola- 
non. But why do I say for those among them? are not all old 



niE AFFLICTE15. 1D3 

persons, or very nearly all, afflicted ? Can one among a thousand 
of them be found who enjoys good health? Scarcely. This 
class of mankind, therefore, will differ from most of those whom 
I have already attempted to console, by its being a small class, 
and from all others by there being very few in it exempt from 
affliction. 

The afflictions which are pecuhar to old persons are the infirm- 
ities of old age, as they are very commonly and very properly 
called. 1 say peculiar, I do not mean that they are not at all sub- 
ject to sudden and periodical diseases; for such not only afflict 
them greatly, but often take them off. 1 mean that it is not so 
common for them to be afflicted and torn by such attacks, as it i^ 
for them to be worn and wasted by the infirmities of old age?. 
They aie almost all chronic patients; and as such I shall view 
them and speak to them, in what I am about to say; not forgetr- 
ting, however, that they too may be scorched with a raging fever, 
exhausted by cholera morbus or dysentery, distres^d by convul- 
sive fits, or thrown into anguish by violent cholic, or any other of 
the sudden diseases which seize upon the sons and daughters of 
sorrow and wo. 

'The aged are those to whom much is due on many accounts. 
They are our fathers and mothers. By them we received out 
existence; they nourished us in our infancy, and provided for us 
in our youth, and counseled and guided us in our riper years^ 
We are in debt to them, and our debt is great, we owe them much/ 
We are bound by many weighty and solemn obligations to pro- 
vide for all their wants, and to treat them most affectionately and 
tenderly, and io do all in our power to make smooth and easy the 
short remains of that path of life, which their aged and feeble 
{&ii have yet to tread. As a civilized, evangelized and enlighten- 
ed nation, we should set an unblemished and perfect example to 
the whole world, in our treatment of our fathers and mothers, 
whoso long and laborious toils, and great experience; and whose 
grey heads and hoary locks clothe them with reverence, and call 
for much respect from all juniors and inferiors. And those 
among them who have peculiar afflictions, have greater demnnds 
upon our cnre, and attention, and sympathies. We should re- 
mcmbor that we too may be old, and as we treat them, so will we 
likely be treated. Tli>f^ ancient nations treated their old people 
with much respect and esteem. The Eoypiians embalmed their 
fathers whnn they died, and kept them in their houses standing 
on their feet acfainst their walls, with their faces ouUvards, for 
years. The command given to the descendants of Abraham, was 
— "Honor thy ftther and thy motiier, that thy d ys may be long 
in the hind/' The reason of this command is manifest. Should 



194 CONSOLATIONS OV 

they not ijonor the aged, but put them to death, when the^* 
^become old or less serviceable, or helpless, (as some heathen na- 
tions now do) they in turn wonld be put to death by those younger 
than themselves, when they become old, and so their days could 
not be long in the land. Therefore, it was further said — ''Heark- 
en to thy father that begat thee, and despise not thy mother when 
she is old. Cursed be he that setteth light by his fit her or his 
mother, and all the people shall say, Amen." The Romans and 
Grecians would rise with the utmost respect, and give place, and 
give seats, when the aged came in. 

Cicero says — "We ought to hold our parents most dear, because 
from them was delivered to us, life, matrimony, liberty and cit^ 
izenship." Another Latin writer says — "Make yourself such to* 
wards your parents as you would desire your children to be to- 
wards you." And I must even delay briefly to relate what Plu- 
tarch and Lidy tell us of Coriolanus, a brave general of the Ro- 
mans. They say — "After doing much for his country, he was, 
by a decree of the people, banished. He went to a neigoboring 
nation, the Volsci. They immediately made him one of their 
generals, to head their armies against the Romans, his own people. 
He rapidly conquered many of their towns. They became alarm- 
ed, and sent orators to beg for peace. The orators carried back a 
fierce answer. They were sent agnin, he would not admit them 
into his camp. The Priests, a more sacred order of men, clothed 
in their most sacred attire, were sent, but all in vain. At length 
Coriolanus' mother, an aged woman took his wife having two sons, 
and also took a large company of women, and went to the cnmp. 
It was announced to Coriolanus that a large band of women had 
come. But he, who could not be moved by the pnl^lic majesty 
of the legates, nor by religion in the Priests, was much more ob- 
stinate against the tears of the women, until he saw his aged 
mother, when he exclaimed — "Thou hast overcome and conquered 
my anger, O my country, by my mother's prayers, for whose sake 
1 now forgive thy injury done to me. And he immediately deliv- 
ered Rome from hostile arms." 

All that are not themselves aged, should vie with one another, 
and strive to see who could treat the aged in the most becoming 
and proper manner. It is true, that — "The glory of young men 
is their strength: and the beauty of old men is the grey head. 
Yea, the hoary head is a crown of gh>ry, if it be found in the 
way of righteousness." A crown of glory, yes, a crown of sur- 
passing and unequalled glory. If it be fo;inci in the way of 
righteousness, not all the fields of nnture furnish a cluster or head 
of flowers hloominff wi*h such transcendent splendor and loveli- 
ness; and the crowns that kings and conquerors wear are heavy, 



inigged and uncomely, in comparison fo -those which erown the * 
fields. Therefore Jjie crown, the hoary crown, that resls upon 
the head of the rinrhteous, is the crown of crowns here below. 
It indicates that he who wears the crown of the universe above, 
has favored his subject on earth with many days, and permitted 
him to become a veteran soldier in his service among men. 

I must confess that such a crown, such a hoary head, with its 
silver locks, has always called forth my heart's highest admira- 
tion and esteem. But when it is on the head of one who is not 
in the way of righteousness, its glory is eclipsed. Of all the 
things 1 ever meet, such a crown covering a wicked head, i\nd 
having under it a had heart, a profane mouth, and hands that 
work iniquity and crime, is to me the most unlovely and hateful. 
An old, grey-headed sinner, son of vice, drinking, swearing, bad 
ma , who can love? He has long abused the abounding favorfi 
and kind offers of the God of mercy and grace. He has had one 
year added to another, till the amount has become great, and God 
is adding still another, to see if he will not even yet turn out of 
the broad way that leadeth to destruction, into the way of right- 
eousness, that thus the hoary crown of sm and shame that is now 
upon his head, may shine forth in all the lustre of righteousness, 
iand become a crown of glory. To all snch, and especially to 
those of you, who are afflicted, this would be my brief but mrst 
/ earnest exhortation, to turn in*o the way of righteousness, that 
your hoary crowns may indeed come from under their obscure 
and horrid eclipse, and pour forth their light like the sun when 
he comes out of an eclipse in his full strength. I shall not tarry 
liere to reiterate the calls, and offers, and warnings, and thr^aten- 
iings of God, which have been so often, and even till now, lost 
upon you. J shall just remind you, that — "He that being often 
reproved hardeneth his neck, shall suddenly be destroyed, and 
that without remedy.'' Your time is short, if this sickness does 
not take you off, old age soon will. The afflictions that are now 
on you are anotl^er warning, and my voice is now added to it. 
You must at last, even at this eleventh hour, believe, repent, and 
turn out of the broad way, into the way of righteousness, onhrse 
hoary heads of yours, will certainly, (I say certainly, and me;in 
what I say, for God means the same,) go down, and sink, under 
a dark, dark, and eternal echpse; you will suddenly be destroyed, 
and that without remedy. T can see no reason why you do not 
nped consolations, nor why they would not do you as much good, 
as ai>y of all the disconsolate sons and daughters of men. Aiid 
if yfMi would seek and find them, you cannot do it in the world- 
Hng',i hope, in the ho|)e of this world, because you must soon bt 



iUO CONSOLATIONS OF 

torn from it. You must seek and find them in the christian's 
hope, the higher, and holier, and happier hope of a better world. 

And now my fellow mortals, O ye aged, hoary headed, thought- 
less, heedless, decrepid, afflicted sons and daughters of vice and 
wickedness, bending over your graves, if all other exhortations 
and warnings have been lost upon you, may not these of mine! 
I must now leave you, but before I go I will just tell you, that 
whether you wish me or not, I shall most earnestly, with all my 
heart, put up my prayers to Almighty God for you, who can 
«ven yet console arid save you, if he will. Farewell— I go on my 
way to converse wath and to console the hoary headed, who are in . 
the way of righteousness, and whose boaiy heads are therefore 
crowns of glory unto them. 

Aged, reverend, worthy, but afflicted friend, it has now become 
my duty, and fallen to my lot to visit you in your declining days, 
when afflictions are upon you. You have lived Jong and passed 
through many trying scenes, but have also had your share of the 
enjoyments of life. No doubt you are surprised to find yourself 
here still. You have come through irmume able dangers seen 
and unseen, which forty, or fifty, or sixty years ago, you looked 
forward to, and then had not the least expectation to pass 
through them all without falling by some one or another of them. 
Perhaps sickness has torn your frame and shaken you over -he 
grave repeatedly. It may be you have had many hairbrendtb 
escapes from death, threatened by storms of wind, by lightning, 
by fire, by horses and by all kinds of perils, on land and on 
water. 

The world is continually changing. There is a restles3 spirit 
in man which incessantly pushes him on from one .thing to 
another. The manners and customs of the people do not remain 
exactly the same, ten, or even five years. They change their 
language, their peculiar phrases and modes of speaking — their 
dress, and even th.eir modes of worship, yes, and I may say, 
even the shapes of their bodies. These ^changes, in addition to 
all the cares, and woes, snd trials, and calamities to which man 
is liable, greatly affected you as you were growing old. The 
world, as you first became acquainted with it, and to which 
your habits and customs were conformed, was no longer the 
same. A large part of those who were of your age, and with 
whom you giew up, fell by your side, now one, and then 
another, until your ranks have become thin, and have been getting 
thinner and thinner still, till now there is but here and there one 
or two of your first associates to be found; and you are lit* 
erally and truly the few among the many, and are sunounded 
by what i3 to you another and a new world, This has long 



TMil AFFLICTEJ». 197' 

^go made you feel strange and uiipleasant, and these strange 
and U!ipl'i\s n? tijeliHgs grow upou you as you get older, and 
porric'.ilnjy when >oii Jiear of sull another, and ui]')the} of your 
aged tq-jf lb; d'oppiuL^ off. Long ago you felt as if your world 
;wrts d< id, if you were not, as the aged poet speaks of himself^ 
when he says— 

''■'^'ith me that time is come, my world is dead, 
A new world rises, and new maimers reign : 

* # ^ * * -^r- * ^. ^. 

What a pert race starts up! the stranj>;ers gaze, 
And 1 at thi m ; my neighbor is unknown." 

In the conduct of the pert race that started up around you, 
you saw so many things contrary to your own views and feelings 
^hat you not ordy gazed but could not restrain your miud from 
finding fuilt. And ju?t so they felt and c>cted towards you. I 
liave no doubt that in m:.ny things, things that are indifferent in a 
mO'-.d point of view, you and tliey have both acted impropcMdy, 
and unnecessarily widened the breach between you. Nothing is 
more common between the young and the old. It would have 
tended greatly to your peace and <o tHeir profit, if in all such 
things you h:id made pjoper allowances for them, an d they fox 
you. Perhaps yo-i think yju have done a great deal of that, and 
it m jy be you have. If so, you have given them much instruction, 
and thev hwe given you much comfort. If you are to be spared 
still loncrer, do not ftil to pursue this course, and good results 
will follow. But you should never have winked at their vices 
and sins, bjit with all prudence taught, reproved, and warned 
them, and should do so still, if life is spared. There is no case 
in which 'here should be more bearing and forbearing, than be- 
tween the old and the young. It never was the design of God 
that only one generation should be on the earth at a time. On 
the contrary, he his always had several generations at once, mixed 
all through one anorher, for the mutual advantage of the whole. 
He very often has the father and the mother, their children, their 
children's children, and the children of them, all living at once, 
and mingling together. That is, the great grand children, enjoy- 
iwj the society of their parents, their grand parents, nnd their 
great grand parents.^ And in all this, we see the mosi striking 
wi-jdorn. Dreadful would be the state of mankiml, if only one 
generation shoidd live at a time. The grass and herbage of the 
iiells, ^he wheat and barley, the cotton and corn spring up in the 
sprMi^T — wither and fall in autumn, and are dead in winter. Were 



tThJs is at this moment true of my own worthy and honored parents. 

17 



}98 tONSOLATIONS OF 

this the state of man, how ignorant he would be! who would iu^ 
struct him? how entirely would he be unmanned, curtailed of 
his intellectual powers, and shorn of his superior and lordly 
glories ! 

But this is not the state and condition of the human family. 
On the contrary, as I have said, several generations are on the 
stage at the same time. The older are spared to instruct the 
younger, and all, from the oldest to the youngest, have their re- 
spective duties to perform to one another. Every one'has ap- 
pointed unto him or her, by Providence, his or her proper place - 
and station, and his or her proper and appropriate part to perform. 
If they v,'ill observe the pointings, and directions of Providence, 
as attentively as they ought, they will seldom, or never, be at a loss 
to know their part— their duty — and in what manner it becomes 
them to perform it, when it leads them to act towards one another. 

Much of the happiness and comfort of the human family de- 
pends upon iheinanner in w'hich these several social duties are 
performed. In the performing of them, there is a strong tenden- 
cy and propensity in all, to encroach upon others. Superiors 
upon inferiors, and inferiors upon superiors. Fathers upon chil- 
dren, and children upon fathers. With respect to infants and 
children of the age of four, or five, all will agree that they 
should be treated as parents and guardians think best, as they 
cannot think for themselves, or at least cannot think right. One 
of the greatest diiticiilties in all social life, arises out of the dan- 
ger and propensity of parents continuing too long to think for 
their children, and the children thinking too soon that they ought 
to be allowed to think for themselves. On the part of the 
parents, when it is carried too far, it becomes sovereignty out of 
its place, and suppresses that independence and self command, 
-which children, as they grow up and approach manhood, and 
M^omanhood, should be allowed gradually to assume. The de- 
nial of this, produces from the children, rough and untender 
treatment of the parents. And on the part of the children, the 
tendency and propensity is to assume these rights and privileges 
too soon, which produces in the parents a very rigid exercise of 
sovereignty over them. The whole brings about much unhiippi- 
iiess, and it is for the want of both knowing the exact extent of 
thei'- rights, and being disposed to go to that extent, and content 
there to stop. A vast amount of social difficulties, of heart- 
burnings, and heart-acbings, would be prevented in society, if all 
\vould study, and strive, in a proper and laudable manner, to go 
to that extent, and no farther. It is not always age that makes 
superiority. Talents and acquirements, merit, intellectual and 
mgral, have much more to do in this business than age. But thijs 



THS AFFLICTED. 199^ 

18 the most difficult truth or lesson in the world, for aged persons 
to learn. It is almost impossible for them to prevail upon them- 
selves to believe, that a certain young person, born perhaps after 
they were forty or fifty years old, should know more than they do. 
And this inclines them always to be finding fault, finaing fault, 
speaking of the ignorance, arrogance and presumption of the as- 
suming youths. And it makes them unhappy. I do not mean 
that they should not see and condemn the ignorance, arrogance 
and presumption of those youths who are truly ignorant, arrogant 
and presumptuous ; but I do mean that they should allow virtuous, 
talented and meritorious young persons all that credit that is due 
to them. And I do further say, that respect is due to the aged, 
from all juniors, solely upon the ground of their being aged, 
and a vast, unspeakable amount, when they are not only aged but 
virtuous, wise and meritorious. 

How it has fared with you, and how you have got along in all 
these matters, my aged friend, you know. Whether you have 
been treated, under all circumstances, as you should have been, or 
Bot, you at least have your opinion. But perhaps you feel ready 
to enquire of me, what good it will now do you, for me to talk to 
you about the past. My object is to prepare your mind for what 
I have yet to say to you, concerning the present and the future. 
Again, othe?s, as they are growing old, may be profited by the 
fairts which I have dropped. Saying therefore, nothing more 
about how much or how little consolation you received from any 
or all sources, in passing through your former scenes of affliction, 
let us look around for all we can now find. 

In the first place, if you are attending and do attend carefully 
to what I have said, with regard to the rights of old and young, I 
presume you are receiving, and will receive all that nursing, and 
care, and tenderness from those about you, that it is in their 
power to give. I take it for granted that you have been a faithful 
laborer, and a true friend to others in your day; and that whenever 
it was your duty to nurse the sick, or the aged and feeble, you 
did not in the least shrink from your duty, but performed it with 
cheerfulness and constancy, however unpleasant and wearisome. 
Much is always due to such, for the good they have done. Re- 
mind those about you then, most cautiously, tenderly and afi'ec- 
ionately, how kind and faithful you have been to the sick^ the 
aged, the feeble and the helpless; awd beg of them to treat you 
mildly and affectionately, and not to let you sutfer for any thing 
which would in the least tend to your relief and comfort. And 
as the infirmities and frailties of life, and especially of old acre, 
are unavoidable, and as you are now quite advanced, and it is 
•ftUogether possible for you to become a little childish, in thd 



I 



midst of 5'onr infirmiiies and afflictions, intreat of them, in case 
of That, to double their diligence, watchfuhiess, tenderness, and 
faiihfnlrjess; and unless they are more hard hearted than all - 
ot'iers, and baser than the basest, so that their tender mercies are 
crrel'y, they will be faitlifiil, and true, and kind, and affectionate 
to yon, and spire no labor nor expense to serve you. f say, they 
will do so, no niat^er who they are, your children, your former 
friends, or even strangers. You, my friend, indulge an humble^ 
a steady, strong and growing hope, and trust that you are now, 
and long have been in the way of righteousness, that you are a 
chrisiian. This makes rnc feel unspeakably more pleasant, while 
I am in your p'esence. 1 look at your grey head as a crown of 
glory, blooming and ripening for a higher and hnppier world. 
And I do not feel it to be a very difllcult undertaking to aid you 
in your meditations, thoughts, views and hopes, so as for you to 
find consolation, if indeed you need any aid at all. I mean no^ 
only with a view to your present sufferings, but with a view to 
your living longer, or dying n(rw, as God in his wisdom and sov- 
ereigrity may order. No doubt you may have some little difficulty 
in your reasoning pov^ers, and a good deal in your feelings, to see 
why it is that God still afRicts you in your old age. But it is on- 
ly necessary for me briefly to rrmind you, that you are a siniier 
Uill, notwithstanding you may really be in the way of rigliTeous- 
nesss and that you have not yet got through that training and 
discipling on the earth, which the great Captain of our salvation 
thinks necessary for you. You will remember that he was himself 
"A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief; and that he said 
it was enough for the disci})le that he be as his master;" and his 
sorrows did not end tilt his resurrection. Further, that when he 
promised his disciples good things here below; that they should 
•'receive a hundred fold now in this time, houses and brethren, 
and sisters, and mothers, and children, and lands, he added, with 
persecutions.'" That is, they were not only to endnre the com- 
mon afflictions of life, but to these were to be added the perseru- 
tions of fierce and cruei men. All these trials and sufferings ihey 
were to endure, and not only to endure, but he was careful to ?eU 
them, that he, and he only, •'that endure^h to the end shall be 
saved," And now, my dear friend, reverend and aged friend^ 
you hive not yet endured unto the end, either of your afflictions, 
or of your life; and it becomes you to "endme as a good sr>)d'er 
of Jesus Christ." Y(^u are not only a soldier, but a veteran sol- 
dier, of long experience and tried cour-'go. Y'ou should theie- 
fore bear these afflictions that are now upon you, with an uncom- 
mon degree of composure, self command and patience. Tt is 
said — "Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an exuniple, that y£^ 



«HE AFFLICTED. 201 

should follow his steps."' He is our great example to guide u^, 
and encourage ^js_in our sufferinga and aftlictions. But he is 
not our only example.— The apostle James says to us — ''Take 
my brethren, the prophets, who have spoken in the name of the 
Lord, for an example of suffering atfliction, and of patience. 
Behold we count them happy which endure."" It appears then, 
that the prophets are to be our example, as well as the Saviour. 
And why should not you be an example, and a good one too, of 
suffering affliction, and of patience, seeing you have so much ex- 
perience, and have been so long enabled to exhibit the christian 
character in all the varied scenes of life, and in the most trying 
circumstances. I can see no reason why you should not strive 
to your utmost, to make yourself a worthy example to all that 
are around you, but especially to all who are younger than your- 
self. You can certainly bear these present afflictions much better 
than you did those which you endured, ten, twenty, thirty or forty 
years ago. Not only with respect to the pains which distress you^ 
but with respect to your hopes and fears. Y-u cannot be so 
easily alarmed now as you used to be; and as you have always 
hitherto recovered, you will now, notwithstanding you are old, 
more readily and more easily hope to recover again; or if you 
have no ground at all to hope, you will be indifferent about it. 
By your great age and your happy experience, and by feeling as if 
your work was done, or nearly done upon the earth, you are en- 
abled to have that resignation to the divine will, by which you can 
most readily, and suddenly, and most cheerfully and entirely ac- 
quiesce in whatever God appears to have immediately before you, 
life or death. O let it be so, my dear aged afflicted friend ! Shew 
the world, prove to the world, that "though your outward man 
perisb, yet your inward man is renewed day by day.''' Put it be- 
yond a doubt that there is such a thing as sanctified afflictions. 
And though your affliction be great, exceedingly severe, *'even 
beyond measure," feel in your heart, and be able to say with youi 
mouth — "my light affliction wbich is but for a momenl^ is work- 
ing out for me a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.® 
"It is sanctified unto me — it is holy and reforming chastisement' — 
God brings it upon me for my good, not as a vengeful judge, but 
as a loving father." And thus vou will prove it to be true to all 
around, that "whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth 
evf ry son, vea, and daughter too, whom he receiveth." And you 
will not despise the chastening of the Lord, nor f^int when thou 
art rebuked of him; but will rejoice, knowing that if "you endure 
chastening, God dealeth with you as with sons; but if you be 
wiHiout chastisement, whereof all are partakers, then arc youa- 
Bastard and not a son" or a daughter 

17^ ' 



2(& COXSOLATIOl^S OF 

I know, my aged feeble friencl, that "no rb?s^enipg for the 
present fc^eeineih io lie joy.ous, but grievous : ne^enheless af er- 
wards it yieldeth the peace.! l»le faiiif- of ligbieousness nnlo the m 
which are exercised thereby." *^ Wherefore lift up your haiids 
which hang down,r!nd \ our feeble knees," and hope to be sp .ndj 
<Mhal you may recover strength, before y^ n go hence, and be no 
more," among the living upon the earth. Hope to recover strength 
I say, yes, and to see a goodly number of days yet upon the earth. 
You cannot easily he so old, thai you cannot live to be some older 
Still. It may be three, or four, or five, or possibly ten or fifteen 
years. But perhaps you do not feel pleasant to hear me talk about 
that, which, to you, seems so improbable as to be almost impossible 
in your estimation. And it mny be that you are not so perfectly 
and entirely resigned to live, as you are to die, as I but now spoke 
cf your being hs easily reconciled to the one as to the other Per- 
haps it would be your decided choice to die, if it were God's will, 
rather than to live any longer. This w^as thf case with an apostle, 
and has been with m-^ny others, and very decidedly so w^ith the 
writer. They so fully discovered, and knew, and experienced, 
and groaned under the sins and miseries of this world, and so 
strongly and confidenily believed that theieis a world of hnppj- 
ness, in w^hich there is neither sin nor misery, and had such a fnll 
ass iriince of faith and hope, that they would go to that world 
when they died, that rhey said — "We knoir that if our earthly 
hense of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of 
God, a house not made with hands, eternal in tlie heavens. For 
in this we groan earner-tly desiring to be clothed upon, with our 
h use which IS from heaven; if so be that being clothed, we shall 
B'»t be found nnked . For we that are in this tabernacle do groan, 
being burdened: not for that we would be unclothed, but clothed 
upon, that mortality might be^wallowed upof life. We are con- 
fident and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be 
present with the Lord, having a de«=ire to depart, and to be wi'h 
Christ; which is far better. To die is gain.'' Truly, truly it is 
gain, my aged friend, to the confirmed believer, and no doubt 
would be 7o you, as it respects your own individual self, but 
would it be gain to others, and wotdd God's wise, and glorious, and 
happy p'lrposes be more advanced thereby, than by vour continu- 
ing alittlelonofer in the flesh. Of this, afer all. God must he al* 
lowed to be the final and decisive judge. But f venture to lielieve, 
my asfod christian friend, that w^ithout the wide ranging, infinite 
knowledge of the Deity, I can myself suggest to yen several pos- 
sible considerations or reasons, why or hn\t you may do more 
5ood by being required to remain some longer still upon the eartbi 



I 



THE AFFLTCTE».' 2(M} 

J^ln the first place, (nojtwithstanding you may tliitik it impossible) 
it is possJi <le for^yoir so far to recover, as to iidve a cons«clerable 
d' g er of enjoyment yet upon the earth, and to attend to the or* 
dfJiHiy business of life. 'I'liis is very frequently the case, fiven 
with thvise greatly advanced in life. Again, yon may be useful 
here. 1 do not mean l)y doing w great deal of the ordinary busi- 
ness or work of l.fe, which you us'^d to do with so much activity. 
To labor with the hands is not the onl\ way to do good in the 
world. You mny do good and be useful to all around you, by 
setting them a good example, by exp'essing every thing that is 
good and excellent in your countennnce and in your whole car- 
ri'-ge and deportment, Init especially by your words. 
. I fear you have, with all your experience and knowledge, but 
a faint and imperfect impression upon your mind, of the vast 
amount of good you may do in ei:her of tliese ways, but espe- 
cinlly by your words, yes it may be by one single word that may 
drop from your aged lips, and be heard by some person or other, 
perhaps by some thoughtless youth. In order to assist you in 
forming an idea of how much good it is possible for you to do, 
1^1 your mind pass back to the things you did in your youth. 
Perhaps when you were quite young, nearly a hundred years ago, 
you happened to pick up a ciiesnut and an acorn, and it may be 
out of mere curiosity you planted them, but they came up and 
you cultivated and protected them; and now you can look out 
and see standing on those very spots the huge oak and the great 
chesnut. Two or three years ago, J myself, when so feeble as to 
be scarcely able to walk, planted a cedar twig in the door-yard, 
which is now three-fourths of my own height, and a flourishing 
evergreen in winter, to revive my spnits when I cast my eyes 
upon it. 

Again, you may have been the parent of children, at tlie age 
©f twenty or twenty-five, and they may have grown up and maf 
ried early, and raised children, some of whom rnay also now have 
children, so that you may look around and see a large family or 
tribe, sprung from yourself, among whom may be a considerable 
numl)erof great grand children, and all doing well in the world, 
being moral, respectable and useful, and many of them hc^peful 

tit was so ordered by Providence, that just when I came to write for the 
-aged in affliction, my own christian mother, most worttiy, and to me and 
many others, most dear, was seized, and held, and threatened by a violent 
and alarmin;; attack of dysentery, in her seventy-fifth year, Cmy Reverend 
father being in his seventy-seventh 3'ear) so that a patient was presented 
jnunediately before me, of the most interesting and intimate chararti^r^ 
whom I addressc(t after the mann<^r of what you here read. It therefore 
may bn considered strictly prartiral. She was restored, and is tiow in tol- 
erable health. Seyt. 2otb, 1830. F. A. K- 



professors of religion. And possibly you were Ihe insfrnment 
not only of bringing them into existence, but of guiding them 
into the ^'right ways of the Lord." And it may be you have 
guided not only these, but otbcis uot a few. Perhaps a word of 
advice, and instruction, and caution, and warning, given by you 
to some heedless young man, sixty years ago, which you have 
long ago forgotten, was so powerful a word to him, that he did not 
and could not forget it — that it entered into his heart and rankled 
tliere, till (in the hands of the Spirit) it convicted and "reproved 
him of sin, and of righteousnej^s, and of judgment," and that 
he devoted himself wholly and unreservedly to spend his life and 
strength "to spend and be spent" in teaching others, young and 
old, the same important lesson which you taught him; and tJiat he 
is now an old man, and has been successful during all his life, in 
turning many to righteousness, and is going on still in his glori- 
ous and happy career. None of all these things are impossible, 
but very probable. Such a one may not be the only one whom 
you have turned, and who has spent his life thus. And why 
should it be impossible for you to speak a few more such words, 
though you are old ? It is not ; you may yet do it, and should lose 
no opportunity to do it to all who approach your bed, but especial- 
ly to the young. And if you sn far recover as to be able to sit at 
the table with the family, you will there have a fine opportunity 
for speaking such words, and giving much moral and religious in- 
struction. The happy effects and consequences of what you have 
already done, both in natural and moral things, I have spoken of 
only so far as they extend in this world, and this extent is truly 
vast, grand and sublime, as it is presented to our view, and we see 
it with our eyes; but when we follow these happy effects and con'> 
sequences, together with what have yet to proceed from you, on 
to eternity; their vastne^s, grandeur and siiblimity rise in glori- 
ous prospect before u^, to such an extended, immense and im- 
measurable magnitude, that our highest m'^ntal elf)r1s utterly f^il 
to conceive of all the good you moy yet do upon the earth, say- 
ing nothing about what you have already done. VV!iat my friend, 
is it not written? — "Let him know, that he which converteth a 
sinner from the error of his way, shall save a soul from death, 
and shall hide a nmltitude of sins. And they that be wise sh ill 
ghine as the brightness of tjie firmament; and they that turn many 
to ricrhteousness, as the stars for ever and ever." If you have, 
and do yet turn so many to righteousness, you shall shine as a 
star for ever and ever, and they that you have turned and shall 
turn, and all those turned by them shA\ thus shine. Why, it 
would seem that yon, and ^11 thev shining thus, would you rselve!? 
make a world of glory and happiness. 



O then, my agod cfflicied friend, try your utmost to be willing 
to live some lon^! j?tiii, if it be the will of God, though yoo be 
dreadfuily aftiicted^paineid, and sick, and feeljle; seeing, even we 
short-sighted beings can discover much good that you may yet 
do upon the earth. 

Furthermore, this is not all I can say on the subject, nor all I 
have to say. 

You know that "all things shall work together for good to 
them ihat love God." And it may be his righteous and kind 
purpose to spare you here, not only to cause unpleasant things, 
alfiictions, to work for your good, and to permit you to do g^jod^ 
but to have great satisfaction in seeing others do good, and be- 
holding the wondorous and happy chan^^s, which his own hur.d 
may work in savir.g tiie souls of men. You may see those h^.ppy 
ch'.mges wrought upon those immediately around you, and in 
whom you are nearly and deeply interested. And this may le- 
joice your heart enough to compensate you doubly for all the 
pained you may have endured in living to witness it. In addition 
to these, you may hear of extensive, stupendous and glorious 
ch'juges at a disrcnce from you, which will (J^reatly revive your 
he lr^ You m-jv hear of the most happy revclutions of the i^ov- 
ernmen-s of the nations. You m 'y bear of the most sirrnal tri- 
umpfjs of the R deemer's kingdom of righteousness ond pence, 
and the most pij)id, complete, fiial, and final prostration of the 
kingdom of Satan. As m my believe, and ns we hnve, at least, 
some faint appearance of it, tlint we have come near to tlie dawn 
of he millennium, you may even yet live to see or hear of a na- 
tior> being born to God in a day. This would truly be glorious 
and highly intces^ing news fo? you to cnrry home to the inhabit 
tunts of heaven. It woidd not only fdl yitur heart wi!h joy, but 
th<' hearts of men and angels above, when yoivget there with it. 
By this I am led on to take a shtl more extended, exalted ^nd 
cheering view of the sulj-^ct, and of^^^our case. Godrnay re- 
quire you to remain here for a ^bort se son, no* merely fur purpo- 
ses and services for this world, but fu the next. To sii.md at your 
post rs a sentinel in the army, not only till he l^s' hour, l.ut the 
li.s^ nn'nuJe of your time; to ol)«erve all the movements of ?he 
enemy, and collect all the inform 't ion you possil'^y cin,both jQood 
and b- d, pleasant and unpleasant, not merely with resfjec* to the 
condition of iiidividuals around yon, but vvi'hve«|Krt to th'^ mn-. 
dition, the doings and movornents of the nations of the w( r'd. 
Th it thus, wlien you go, you nry have a In^cT^ am<^unt f>f infor- 
n '?tio»t, quite a history of the state of tbintrs here I elevv, j^r'^l'ered 
li!>durin</ your 'on,^ life, to carry ?>:> on hiiT^\ ^^ ihebe-^^fMdv eity^ 
the uietropolly of all worlds. And ihut at ihc veiy ilusi appear- 



206 CSSSOLATIONS OT 

ance of your aged, reverend head, within the gates of that cii}j 
the joyou«, inquisitivj and enquiring inhabitants, men and angels^ 
may run to meet you, and as large a circle surround you as can 
hear your voice hastily, and gladly relating and rehearsing to them, 
all the news^ you have from the earth, the whole history of your 
long, and laborious, and active, and afflicted life, including the 
last, and therefore the most interesting inteUigence which you re- 
eeived, just before your departure: together with a full narrative 
to your profoundly silent and very attentive audience, of all the 
late, great, grand and glorious plans, operations and advances 
of King Messiah, aided by all his active officers, as instruments, 
his ivord, and his happy institutions as means, his sacraments and 
ordinances; and giving them (what they will certainly expect to 
hear from every new comer) the most recent and particular ac- 
eounts of the progress of all the great benevolent societies of 
your nation, and of the world; the bible societies, the theological 
seminaries, the missionary societies, the tract and Sunday school 
societies, together with all other benevolent institutions, common 
schools, and education, morality and religion in general: not 
forgetting by any means to give them, in the most minute manner, 
all the latest knowledge you may have obtained of the opposition 
ef wicked and ungodly men, against these benevolent and philan- 
thropic institutions: and you will not certainly forget to pour into 
their listening and sympathetic ears, the whole story of your own 
afflictions and woes, that they may rejoice with you in youi deliv- 
erance and triumph; and as }ou are a being of sympathy^ you 
will remember all the sons and daughters of affliction whom you 
left below, and point your active and swifi-winged hearers down 
to them, begging them to make haste to relieve and comfort them: 
and thus ^hey having heard your whole narrative, embracing every 
item of news, which you as a finite being could collect, will be 
more fully instructed with regard to the state of things here be- 
low, and better prepared to come down as "ministering spirits, 
aent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation.'^ 
They will better know where all the sorrowful objects of affliction 
are to be found, who need their ministry and consolation; and 
where they may meet and repel the enemies advancing to make 
attacks upon those who shall be heirs of salvation; and lastly, 
where they m^y most advantageously fall in and put forth their 
strength, to advance and make triumphant the Redeemer's king- 
dom. 

This, in connection with other purposes, my aged afflicted 
friend, good old soldier, may be a reason why the all wise God 
may see it best, upon the whole, for you to remain here some 
longer stilL To wait for approaching eveats, small and great^ 



'IVHE AFFLICTED. 207 

gdod and bad, and as soon as they liave arrived and occurred, for 
you to gather up ^he news, and carry it on high, to add, not only ta 
the joy, but to the knowledge and usefulness of the inhabitants of 
heaven. 

All these things taken together, that 1 have said on the point, 
appear to be some of the reasons discernable by us mortals, of 
finite and limited vision, why it may be best for yourself and 
others, and most advance the glory of th^; great God, tor you to 
be detained in the tiesh, (though in great affliction and weakness) 
some days, oi even years longer. But if God should continue 
you, and were you not able, nor I for you, nor any body else, to 
see or to suppose one singh. reason for it, that would be no proof 
that he had not sufficient reasons, for he certainly would hr.ve. 
You know, that "now we see through a glass, darkly, but theft 
face to face: now we know in part; but then shall we know, 
even as also we are known." And you remember distinctly, what 
our kind Saviour said to one of his disciples, who was a little too 
inquisitive —'*Jesus answered and said unto him. What I do thou 
knowest not now, but — (O how kind!) thou shalt know hereafter.'* 
Bear up, bear up then, be courageous firm and unmovable, and 
hope unto the end, an.l, though you be infirm, frail and feeble 
during all your stay, you shall hereafter know why it was so, and 
all about it. 

It would be unreasonable and absurd to suppose that you, 
or any one else, sh uld carry up on high a large amount of 
news and intelligence, and deliver it there as I have repres- 
ented, increasing both the jjy and the knowledge of the inhab- 
itants, but receive no accounts, no intelligence from them in turn, 
Certamly they will rejoice and hasten to tell you all they 
know that you are capable of receiving; and will especially 
explain and expound to you, if they can, why you had to tarry 
go long in the flesh, being so very infirm and hanging on to life 
by so britUe a thread. But if their knowledge of the ways, 
and doings, and purposes of the great king do not extend so far, 
and they are unable to do it, then he who has said, ''thou shalt 
know hereafter,'^ will make good his word, and you have 
only to remember that ^'heaven and earth shall pass away, but 
his words shall not pass away." His words cannot fail, and 
he will satisfy you with regard to the whole matter. 

But on the other hand, my old afflicted friend, is there at this 
moment not the least prospect or hope of your life being con- 
tinued, but is it manifest to yourself and to all around that the 
'Hime of your departure is at hand;" it will be much more easy 
for you '^to set your house in order" and be ready for the great 
change, than if vou were in active life. ITou have, some lime 



208 CON'SOLATIONS OF 

since, laid aside the diffieait and burdensome concerns of life, 
and it vvili not take you many minutes to settie all your affairs, 
give your dying advice, and charges, and exhortations to all 
aro.iad you, and to bid farewell to all friends. Then, it will 
only remain for you, -ike ijood old Juc.>b, co gather. up your feet 
into the bed. and, with ihe fund of inf jmiati .^n which you have, 
iucludi ig the m.^st recent accounts and news, being your- 
self of full age, like as a shock *j£ corn coming in his season, 
for vou to yield up the ghusl, and be gathered unto your people,- 
to t:\ke your flighi under convoy of an active band of winged, 
and h )lv, and mighty angels aw^ay to the heavenlv city. 
FarewelK 

J ily 27ih, 1830. 

Th(^ time has come for me to remind my reader that I have 
DOW Hccomplishd my plan and promise to attend to the peculia- 
rities of the different classes of mankind in affliction. This, I 
was to do rather as it respected their standing and condition in 
society than the dilferent diseases which were preying upon 
them. Whether 1 have done it to any g ►'jd purpose or not, my 
reader must j idge for him or hersell. In ordor to make my 
little work as 'jjeneral and as complete as possible, allowing no 
great and stricking defi> iency, and endeavouring to meet the 
disconsolate and attempting to console them, whatever may be 
the cause or the shape of their disconsolate condition, I have 
come to he coviciusion that it will be necessary and incumisent 
upon me, io say a w«>rd or two for those afflicted by the afflic- 
tions of other?, au'^i a few more for the meiancholy. This will 
be acteibuag i^ thfse. who labor under two general classes of 
calamities or diseases. • ■ 



FOR THOSE AFFLICTED WITH THE AFFLIC- 
TIONS OF OTHERS. 

S ich are persons vv^ o have eh; rge <.f the deaf, the dumb, the 
bbM'J, the la<o«', the halt, ihe hciplest*, he deranged, and th se 
that are s ject tt> fits <>r any (die. dis?^ase or calamity whi' h 
renders them unable to tv^ke care of themselves, as iho^e 
wh i are not afflictd cj.o and do To this claSS belo.^ ail th se 
ab.ised. st:rvefl, broken-hearted wives, with their children, wh© 
are aiihcted with the ffl • i »n 'f dr^iiken h :slands and faUvM's, 

It is more ^fCih^riMi Ji • ] a^ ;;f «he female part of nj-. kind 
to remoia at home and xa tiie house, to attend to all domestic 



TEE AFFLICJTEP, 209 

concerns, than for the male part, whose avocations and employ- 
ments call them^to theii^ fields, to their shops, and to take long 
journeys. It therefore more naturally % and more unavoidably, 
and necessarily belongs to the female part to take charge of 
and attend to those truly afflicted, and general!} helpless, and 
therefore unavoidably filthy and loathsome objects whom 1 have 
mentioned above. The great v^eight of the burden usually 
lights upon mothers. From this setting forth of facts, it app ars 
that my main business now, is to attempt to console the female 
part of the community, and especially mothers, not forgetting 
.however that others, both male and female, may have charge 
of such objects. We ought all to be very thankful that such 
objects are not more numerous than they are. The most un- 
happy, trying and difficult are children, either born deficient or 
becoming so in their infancy or the early part of their lives. 
Jit is no uncommon thing for them to be deaf, ox dumb, or help- 
less or idiots. One such will occupy nearly all the time, night 
.and day, and exhaust almost the whole strength of a single per- 
son. The loss of sleep and rest on their account, is a very great 
privation. This, together with the anxiety of mind experienced 
concerning them, makes the affliction truly a double one, first 
upon themselves, and next upon the person or persons who have 
charge of them. It appears then, that the persons for whom I 
am now to seek consolation, though they are in health, are really 
afflicted, and not only so, but deeply so. Those who have to nurse 
the sick for a few weeks might even be said to be afflicted. But 
what is that to months and years, or a life-time. It is not my bu- 
siness, therefore, at this time, to visit those who are so well s,nd 
hearty, and comfortable as to need no consolation, so as scarcely 
to bid me welcome when they see me coming, with a view to 
hold free, and fainihar, and friendly, and encouraging, and cheer- 
ing conversation with them, concerning their woes and sorrows. 
On the contrary, many a long-tried, way-worn^ worn down mortal 
of this class, vvould rejoice to see any body doming to console 
them, even if they had reason to expect very little consolation 
from him. 

Whether I have little or much, my friend, it is my earnest de- 
sire thit you may receive all that can be discovered and obtained, 
from any source whatever, in the midst of your exhausting and 
wasting toils, and long and severe servitude. 

I am now come to see the worst of your condition, and say 
and do what J can for you. Truly I see here a very unpleasant, 
difficult and trying object, on which it is your wearisome duty to 
attend. 7'ime was, when you were unfettered, not bound to any 
thing of this kind. When you were free as others, ^*free as air," 

18 



20) C'ONSOLATIO^fS OP 

and had many if not all the advantages, privileges, comforts and 
enjoyments of life. But even then you felt as if there was 
something wanting. You felt, at times, that same restless spirit, 
and those restless feelings from which none of our race, under 
any circumstances are free. The general burdejj of being in a 
world cursed by its Maker, of which world you are a part, was upon 
yoU; And you must be unlike all others, if you did not think 
that heavy enough and bad enough. You met with what you 
considered difficuhies and trials with which you had to contend, 
and which you had to surmount. You, like all others knew but 
little of what was before you . And, like all others m another 
respect, you hoped for the best. But it has pleased Providence 
to bring upon you a large share of what, very likely, you consider 
the worst; and to fix it upon you, and to fasten it to you, and you 
to it, in such a manner that there seems to be little or no prospect 
that you will soon be delivered from it, if at all, before death. By 
this you are thrown out of the ordinary walks and ways of man- 
kind; robbed of your liberty, and made an almost perpetual pris- 
oner, to wait upon one who is periiaps, entirely an absolute and 
perpetual prisoner. I do not mean confined by the chains or 
walls of a criminal's prison, for that would be worse than to be 
confined by any bodily disease, no matter how great. This is the 
place then — this is the room where you have to spend long and 
laborious days, and long, and sleepless, and '^wearisome nights.'* 
Through the day you are not delivered from the ordinary concerns 
and duties of life, which you have in addition to your care of the 
afflicted ; and during the silent, and soothing, and restorative hours 
of night, while the candles of alt others are put out, and they 
themselves are wrapped in the sweet, refreshing slumbers of 
^* balmy sleeps" your lamp casts its pale rays around, giving a sign 
to the occasional traveller, that trouble and sorrow have found an 
abode under the roof where it is your lot to dwell. Oft times 
your heart swells and fills with sadness and grief, and at the lonely 
moment when no eye sees you but that which incessantly looks 
on all, your eyes pour forth a flood of tears, and truly from heart 
and eyes your sorrows bleed. Poor soul! from what I here see 
of your case, and what I can readily suppose and believe, I feel 
sorry for you indeed. You must be altogether different from the 
generality of mankind, or you have had difficulty to see why it is 
that God spates the object of your charge, when it is no longer 
able to be useful, after the manner of mankind in general. No 
doubt you have had, and do have daily, such difficulty. When 
you are troubled and perplexed by the unpleasant and diff'cult 
duties you have to perform, your heart often says, and sometimes 
'Qur head too — "why is it so? why must iihe so? what good does 



THE AFFLICTED. 211 

this poor creature do in the world?" Perhaps you cannot see 
any at all, bnt have continually staring you in the face, the mise-^ 
ries it eudures, and the trouble, and labor, and expense it gives 
you and others. Nothing is more natural than this—nothing is 
more common. You, (and indeed all others,) are so much ac- 
customed to looking on the outward appearance, that you do not 
think of the profoundly deep and allwise purposes of Him who 
seeth not as man seeth, and thus you are prone to have improper 
Views and feelings on the subject. Your having these does not 
add to your comfort, but the contrary. Therefore if I can sug» 
gest only a few reasons why it is preserved, and these be satisfac- 
tory, or even plausible, it may tend to your consolation. 

In the first place, the object of your charge may not be entirely 
destitute of enjovment, though it may appear to be so to yourself 
and others. Its life, like that of all others^ is prolonged by the 
use of food. No matter how irregular and morbid its system 
may be in receiving and digesting its food, it must have some en- 
joyment in the use of it. Even if it is bereft of its reason, it 
may have many more enjoyments than you are aware of. It may 
take delight in viewing the objects that are around it, and particu- 
larly the different persons that come within its sight. Persons 
who are deprived of their senses, mny in the flights of their dis- 
ordered and wandering imaginations, have enjoyments of which 
we have no knowledge*. All persons often have no little pleasure 
in the dreams and visions of th^ night. But if it has the use of 
its reason, it mav have very considerable enjoyments of an intel- 
lectual kind. Even if it is dumb and cannot communicate its 
ideas, it may. have many and be steadily acquiring more. It 
may be a close observer of all things it beholds or hears of, and 
having a fund of information \\\d up in its mind, by the exercise 
of its memory, it may use and enjoy such information. In short, 
it may be moving on and advancing in knowledge and enjoyment 
according to its sphere; and being a nice observer of your ways 
and doings, and conduct in general, may be a witness for or 
against you, According to your goodness or badness, your fiith- 
fulness or unfaithfulness. Again, how do we know, my friend, that 
life is not important under almost any circumstances whatever. 
Dying and being removed in infmc), may, for aught we know, be 
a loss to all who are removed in their inflincy or early years. To 
those who commence their existence on this world it may be a 
great privation to b " taken away before they learn any thing about 
the world on which they sprang into being. And this may be 
true of those greatly afflicted and dreadfully distressed, yes, even 
idiots and deranged persons. God m:iy make their stay altogeth- 
er better for them than their removal. His wisdom is infinite. 



212 ^ CONSOLATIONS OF 






*^'How unsearchable are his judgments, and his ways past find- 
ing out." Thus much I feel warranted to say, and to suggest 
with regard to the afflicted itself, as reasons and suggestions why 
fts existence is prolonged here. But there may be far greater 
and more w^eighty reasons not only why it is afflicted, but why it 
is continued in life. The greatest and most probable of all 
reasons may be, that it is, first, for your good, and next, for the 
good of others. 

Perhaps you were altogether out of the right way, before this, 
trouble, this calamity was brought upon you. You may have 
been greatly lifted up with pride, going on with a high head, a 
lofty look, a stiff neck, a stout heart and an unbending knee, in 
the way to temporal and eternal destruction j feeling much self- 
importance and independence, and thus being far above the levei 
of what this world really is, and what it is safe to aspire to. The 
Allwise, in great kindness^ to you, came to the conclusion that 
you needed a check, that you required to be humbled, lest you 
should rise so hi^h that in bringing you down, you would eventu- 
ally fall below hope and beyond recovery. And for the same 
reason this is continued upon you. It is that you may see, and 
learn, and know the truly humbled and unhappy condition of this 
world, and be sensible, that "before honor con^eth humility.'" 
not merely to be humbled, but to feel humble. It is, (if you view 
it and receive it as you should) to give you an opportunity to 
show the world how many excellent qualities you can exhibit, in 
the most difficult and trying circumstances, in the discharge of 
the most arduous, unpleasant, wearisome and overcoming duties. 
How large an amount of submission, mildness, tenderness, pa- 
tience and faithfulness you can possess, and exercise, and mani- 
fest continually. It is to be a perpetual beacon to remind you of 
your low, and sinful, and helpless state, and to make you know 
that your dependence is not in yourself, but upon God,^ who made 
you, and, who could in a moment put you into the condition of 
this poor afflicted creature. It is further, for a warning to others;. 
that all, who come into its presence, all, who come this way, may 
look, see, learn, know, fear, tremble, and b© humble, and be 
wise. 

These are reasons sufficient, why the life of this afflicted mor- 
tal should be prolonged, and it is unnecessary for us to attempt 
to search (.ut others, though there may be others discoverable by 
us, and a multitude of those which we cannot discover, far better 
than those which we can. It remains, therefore, that you view 
the matter thus, and act accordingly — that you bring your mind 
to your condition, if you would have consolation in the midst of 
your labors and trials. That you consider these reasons as satis^ 



TITE AFFLICTED. 218 

factory, and acquiesce and submit without a murmur to the wise, 
and ever kind allotments of a superintending Providence over 
you. That you submit 1 say, not '*as a wild bull in a not,'' not 
yet as the tamer anitnals which are accustomed to the bridle and 
the yoke, but as a reasonable anmial which has its duty so clearly 
pointed out to it that it cannot mistake. This is not the most 
trifling consolation, to know in so clear a manner your diMy^ and 
to have steady business. One of the greatest consolations how- 
ever, is, that the affliction is not directly upon yourself, however 
much you may be indirectly affected by it. The proud pharisee 
thanked Ood that he was not as other men; that is, that he was 
more wise, more excellent, more holy and righteous, all of him- 
self; he fisted twice in the week, and gave tithes of all he pos- 
sessed. This was truly pride, self-conceit, and self-deception. 
But you may most humbly and gratefully thnnk God, that you 
are not as this poor mortal, and be in no danger of self-conceit 
nor self-deception. You can eat, and your food nourishes y')U, 
and you enjoy it; and therefore you have strength to go and come 
and do your woik. You can also sleep soundly and sweetly 
when not interrupted; and, by beincr accustomed to be interrup'od 
can fall asleep more suddenly, and sleep more soundly when a few 
moments are allowed you. Your mind can be occupied and 
amused through the day, by attending to many of the ordinary 
domestic concerns. You may receive friendly, unceremoniotis, 
sociable visits from your neighbors, and be revived and cheered 
by their free, familiar, and kind conversation. And, by getting 
some trust-worthy faithful person to takf your pl^ce, you m ly 
sometimes leave your unhappy charge and your p'ison, and go 
out and see the world and visit your friends. Though you should 
not at any time or on any occasion, suffer your mind to wander 
from, and forget the miserable object which is under your spocr 1 
charge, yet you should not at all times, and on all occasions, al« 
low your mind to dwell upon it, so as to mar and break your 
peace continually. You should be anxious hut not over-anxiuus, 
not anxious to a fault. Accordingly it will be proper for you to 
indulge your mind on proper occasions, in thinkincf about things 
mnre pleasant and en'ertaininor, and especially when you are 
in company. 1 do not mean that you shoiild assume the airs ( f 
jocosity and levity: this is unbecoming in any per^^on, and would 
be peculiarly so in you, and would by no means lend to ymr 
comfort and consolation. The change from merriment and mirth, 
to the discharge of your serious, unpleasant and trying duties, 
would be so great, as to leave you in a state of denression inrl 
sadn'^s^, far below that in which you were before you thus wildly 
and fieedlessly indulged. My meaning is, that you ehcjuld sober^- 

lb*' 



214 CONSOLATIONS OF 

ly and judiciously enjoy those rational and piTidenf relaxations 
and recreations of mind, which have a soothing, restorative and 
happy etfect on beings constitu led ab we are, and invoived, to 
the extent that we are, in trouble and sorrow. Do so then, take 
this course, and you will gather in no little consolation. In all 
these things that 1 have mentioned, you maj receive more or less 
consolation. 

The last thing I have named was intercourse, and conversation, 
and communioa with your friends, who are your fellow mortals 
around you. As I have said, they can do mrich for you, hui they 
are finite and feeble, and therefore what they can do is only tem- 
porary and very much limited. Would you seek for all that con- 
solation which you are capable of receiving, you must take a 
more extended, enlarged and exalted view, you must "look aloft,'' 
you must look on high. Your eyes must be directed to the great 
source and fountam of all consolation, the infinite and Almighty 
God. He it is, who gave you bei-ig, and, who gave being to the 
BOW miserable object on which it is your duty to tend and wait. 
All power and all blessings are in his hands. "I'he Lord is gra- 
cious, and full of c<3mpassion; slow to anger, and of great mercy. 
The Lord is good to all: and his tender mercies are over all his 
works .^* Aud at the same time it is he, who says, in the fullness 
of his sovereignty,"! wound and I heal.'' Hear then the words 
of his servant — '^Behold happy is the man whom God correctethr 
therefore despise not thou the chastening of the Almighty : for 
he maketh sore, and bindeth up: he woundeth and his hands 
make whole. He shall deliver thee in six troubles! yea, in seven 
there shall no evil touch thee.'' Go to him, therefore, as unto the 
ablest and the best; and reflect as you go that he is not finite but 
infinite. That if he undertake for you, if he rise up to do you 
good, there is no being that can put him down, or in the least re* 
tard him, or disappoint him in his designs and purposes. That he 
is subject to no accident, or any kind of casualty, or mistake, or 
weakness, but what he designs to do, he does without failure. — 
That if he will to do you good, it will be done. And with re- 
gard to his willingness, take the encouragement which he himself 
gives, when he says — "Is any among you afflicted? let him pray." 
Pray therefore; go unto God as a child unto his father, with all 
jour troubles. Take with you this poor afflicted creature — stand' 
in his presence, and pour into his listening ear, all the contents of 
your aching heart — show him the whole burden of your grief, 
and let him hear the long complaint of your sorrows and trials. 
Do all this with faith, and trust, and hope, and do it daily, and 
continue to do it, and cease not, and he will comfort you, and 
you will be comfoited and consoled, iie will listen to you an^ 



THE AFFLICTED, Sl5 

answer your prayers, either by restoring this poor creature entirely 
to health, or to a more comfortable state; or by re-igning you to 
your lot, and affording you strength and courage, to beai up, to 
persevere and endtire unto the end. And he will make the end 
of it and of yourself on the earth, to come about in his own good 
appointed time, be that sooner or later. Jf he continues you 
both here a length of time and even permits it to get worse, so as 
greasly to add to its afflictions and distresses, and to your kborsi 
and toils, and trials, and anxieties, and sorrows, you must not be 
surprised, nor discouraged, nor by any means distrust him, nor in 
the least repine against his providence. Trust in him in the 
same manner, and even more fully and entirely than the pissen« 
gers on board of a ship trust in the captain to take them S'\fely 
across the boisterous ocean, and to land them in the desired ha- 
ven. — And he will certainlv, whether you think so during the 
time of your toils, and trials, and troubles or not, bear you safely 
and triumphantly through them all. Esteem him and love him as 
a good child does his father, and he will, without the bast failure^ 
cause "all things to work together for your good," even your 
severest trials. Yea, although (in the language of an apostolic 
suiferer) you feel like siying — ''I am killed all the day long," yet 
in all these things, in all things, he will bring you off "more thau 
corqueror through him that loved us. For * ^ * neither 
death nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor 
things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any 
other creature, shf^ll be able to sepnrate you from the love of Godj 
which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.^' He will serve himself with 
you upon the earth, and when that is done, he will take you to 
himself, to his rest in the heavens. And, with regard to the un- 
happy being whom it is your duly to take care of, I would say to 
you, that, if it is capable of receiving instruction, it is your duty 
to instruct ii very carefully, according to its abilities and opportu* 
nities, in all the great and important matters of life and death— 
iin every thing that respects its duties and obligations to its fellow 
beings, and especially to God. It is your duty to teach it, in a 
plain simple manner, the existence of God, and to cause it lo 
know something about liis attributes. You sh(juld particularly 
endeavor to satisfy its mind why it is that God afflicts it ns he does, 
that it may be patient, and suffer in hope. You should teach it 
buw to meditate and view things so as to draw ftivorable conclu- 
sions and to bring in every thing and circumstance to comfl)rt 
and console its mind. You should touch it how to pray — how to 
go to its heavenly father, and to speak to him and plead with him, 
and to beg for help and consolation from his patern d and Al- 
mighty hand. And, lastly, you should by no meant? fail to €t^ 



^lif Consolations of 

courage it to hope wi^h ail its heart, for final deliverance from 
all dffl:ction, sin and sorrow, and admission in^oa better and hap- 
pier w »rld. 

Tdese things you should do for it, from time to time, continually 
pr lying to Uod most earnestly for his kind interposition in its 
beh'ilf, and commitving it into his hands, and trusting him to take 
care of it, as I have advised you to trust him to take care 
of yourself. And if it is incapable of receiving instruction, 
yoii should in the same unreserved wiy, commit it into his hands 
and trust him to take care of it, both in time and in eternity, and 
hi will do ir according to his justice, wisdom and mercy. Doing 
these things and taking this course, wliich is altogetlier the best 
ih\i I can think of for you, you will hive good ground to 
h 'pe that all will eventually be well with you and it. Thit, 
though you both are afflicted now, and miy be for sometime long- 
er, yet in due time you will both be delivered from and raised 
a )Ove all afflictions, trials, pains and sorrow*, and be put in pea- 
s' -sion of all that happiness which you are capable of enjoying iu 
the heivenly world. Thus you will now, at this present time, 
have hope, and hope reaching not merely the short length of the 
things of time and earth, but reaching intohe iven and on through ' 
eternity. Hope, I say, and hope of one kind or another, higher 
or lower, earthly or hoavenly, in all cases whatever, constitutes far 
the larger part of the consolations of the afflicted. And it is my 
warm and parting wish for you, my afflicted friend, that all good 
hopes, earthly and heavenly; may be yours, and may be realized 
unto vou. Farewell. 

Aug, 6th, 1830. 



FOR THE MELANCHOLY, 

Many and various are the diseased and unhappy affections of 
the hu«nan mind, to which the sons and daughters of men are 
su'>ject. As it is impossible for the body to suffer without the 
mind's partaking of its sufferin.^s, sp also is it impossible for 
the mind to suffer without the body's being afflicted. The physi- 
cians as well as metaphy-^icians differ among themselves concern- 
ing the nature and faculties of the mind, when in health, or in its 
best state here below, and no less about it when disordered. Not- 
withstanding, they are pretty generally united in classing its dis- 
orders into two great general classes — Melancholia and Miuia. 

In this they follow the ancient Cireeks, and adopt the wo>"ds of 
fheir laiiguage to convey their meaning. The word melancboliaj 



THE AFFLIOTEU. 217 

iii Greek, means, black bile, and was originally used bv the 
Greeks, because the> believed a gloomy, pensive, slate of mind 
to arise from an abundance of black bile. The word mania, in 
their languagre, means fury or rage. When a person, with ihem^/ 
became wild in the mind, and raved and raged, they called it 
mania. There are many other words used, either synonymous 
with these two, or expressing some particular species, or degree 
of mental disorder or alienation, under one or the other of these 
two general classes. Because the opinion prevailed foi a length 
of time that the spleen was the principal seat of that disease 
which produced a gloomy state of mind, persons being thus af- 
fected were said to have ihe spleen, or to be spleeny, or splenetic. 
This is synonymous v;ith melancholia.— It is a fact that the phy- 
sicians have never yet been able to discover the offices of the 
spleen. Again, from the fact that such patients, who were men, 
complained of much uneasiness and distress in the hypochondrical 
regions of the abdomen, it was called hypochondriasis, viz: a 
disease seated in the hypochondria. Thia is also generally con» 
sidered synonymous, or nearly so, with melancholia. It is a 
Greek word, and if we were to examine its etymology we wonld 
soon see how nearly the two words are related to one another in 
their original meaning. Melancholia means black bile. — The 
liver is that great organ or viecus, which produces the bile. Hy» 
pochondrion, means, under the cartilage. — The liver lies under 
the cartilages of the ribs of the right side, and partly under 
the ribs themselves. Thus, when we speak of melincholia, 
black bile, we speak of that which is produced or secreted 
in the right hypochondrion, by the liver, and, thus far, 
it plainly appears that the two words have the same meaning. 
But because there is a left side as well as a right, there is a hypo- 
chondrion there also, in wluch are contained the stomach and the 
spleen, so that the two cavities are called by a Greek plural hy- 
pochondria, that is, the places on both sides under the cartilages 
of the ribs. Following the etvmology, it would give us a rather 
more extended meaning to hypochondriasis, than to melancholia. 
The one however is generally admitted to embrace the other. 
Therefore, when a male person is said to have the hypochondria- 
sis, you may understand him to have the same thing as mehincho- 
lia. The words hypo and hyp, are part*= of the word hypochon- 
driasis used in familiar languasfe, by people in cfeneral, and con- 
veving the same meaning that the whole woid does in more scien- 
tific phrasedogy. 

That disease in the female sex which, in some of its great 
and leadmg characteristics, very much re:^embles the hypo- 
chondriasis in men, but which the ancients believed and most 



218 CM^OLATIO-SS OF 

moderns believe to be altogether a different disease, is called 
by a greek word hysteria^ which has a meaning peculiar to ihe 
female sex. In English it is called not hysteric, but hysterics, 
because it effects them much more in the way of fits than ihe 
hypochondriasis does men. It is attended in a general way 
with the same depression of spirits and gloominess which be- 
long to the other, and therefore when women are subject to 
hysteria or hysterics, it is the same thing as their being in a 
melancholy state, with all those peculiarities which belong to 
their sex. There is an other and plainer term for the dis- 
ease applicable to both sexes, under which name, of late, it has 
spread and is prevailing to an alarming extent in the mitldie ji 
and southern sections of our country ; this term is in plain Eiig- !! 
lish, the liver disease. And because all the digestive organs, 
the stomach and bowels, liver and pancreas, are found to be 
more or less disordered in melancholy patients, they are said 
to have the dyspepsia, that is a general derangement of the chy- 
lopoetic or digestive organs. And further, those persons that 
fall into a despairing way, and think they will come to starva- 
tion and the lowest degrees of wretchedness, and shame, and 
contempt, and ruin on the earth, expecting to be forsaken by 
all their friends, by all peace and hope, and by Gv>d himself, 
not only in this world,* bat in the world to come, are said 
to be melancholy. They often accuse themselves with all 
manner of crimes, small and great, the most atrocious a ad 
daring, and horrid, even •'the blasphemy against the holy l\ 
ghost, which is not to be forgiven in this world nor in that ■ 
which is to come." The persons who go to such extremes in 
blaming themselves are generally known b) all who know them 
to be guilty of no such things, but to be very moral and exem- 
plary in their lives There are however some exceptions. 
Lastly, because the nerves of persons who complain in some 
such manner as I have said are almost invariably found to be 
in a state of general derangement; they are said to be nervous. 
I have sometimes thought that the medical faculty have fallen 
into a mistake in saying they are iibrvous, and that they should 
have said they are nerveless; be that as it may, their meaning 
is that their nerves are out of tone. As the nerves are the imme- 
diate organs of all feeling in the animal system, you may rea- 
dily conclave that great uneasiness and distress will arise from i^ 
their being out of tone. *' 

That the reader may have a little more full and clear view 
of this matter, I will attempt to give him a description of the 
great outlines tjf the nervons system The word nerve is de- 
rived from the latin word nervus^ and means g string or curd* 



TltE AFFIICTEP, gjj^ 

-SO that the nerves of the animal system are strings or cords 
runmng m all directions throughout our bodies WrLs on 
the subject, unt,i of late, considered the head to be thr';eat 

s^trrtLfx^^^^^^^^^ 

n,.d.rn,andcon.dertLTe;drboY/r a ":S„^V'' ""■'' 
wuh smaller systems. Taking eithef vLw'oSLTrcr^r 

every direction throughout our whole frame tecominT«""1/" 

and smaller as they approach to their pla'cer^nSiSf 

I^aTwte-^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

cannot see them with the naked eve thl.lTh ' '"'' *^ 

this, by some, is believed to be the rw,. in ', ™""'^>'""S- And 
in the bones themselves The efferoVa to^!;^/'"'V'''''' ^^ 

in the head,'; in the ve^v 3^1^ of r\'^ ",'" ''^•"^'^""y felt 
end^ofthefingels Tll-!''"rf '•'''^^^^^^^ ^»'' to the very 
the system. Tnd thj vL'^J^u '' '^"'^ the sympathies of 
rect view of the matte S I L, n •%"''''' '"''''■^^^'* '"'"^ '=^^- 
to make these syCthi^ ' tt-J. , T' ^°" *^^' >" '''^^^ 
of our bod.es ha^s p aceJ n'tl elfd"? 7SlT''T '''f °™^^ 
plexuses a large Serve con^uSt g 'w t "h" ^O^'Tt 
the doctors call the great sympathetic noT^e ' ^'"'^^ 

set?f ^t^XThl";!^ th ^^'^"^ '^ ^-•"°^<^ 

them, and -h^y- remaili.^re .,i <> I .."^^ ^''"'^ '"^"^^^'^'^ ^'■°'» 
ioct,fro„thehV.ddorarr;halltt-mb:;^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 



^^^J A;UiNSOLATIOHS Ok 

\ I e hranches plcxu es and ramifications, the whole a con.- 

; ?M«^ cWex neTwork of threads or nerves running across 

^ fanler aSuuterlockin. in every direction; s.ppo.e th,s, 

TL o be suspended before ^ou, and then suppose all tVu.se 

i ^.dlto be wi^-es instead of .hat they are, and take^a bit of 

* fn vou h^nd and hit one of the extremities a slight blow, 

"T .Tw 1 see every particle vibrate and hear a sound r-m 

^u K ,h. vh'le All .his will help your views of the nerv- 
through the whole A , ., .^ ^^^ ^^ 

r^'V r'urtame -It is the great organ through which we 
["""^''^n on aches and pains as well as onr oys and pleasures 
have all ou. '^^ '^''^ J""' ', . „• account of the uses and powers of 

^^ul^irfhSr::. old have ne^^^ 

t^:J':i:S^ dort^ing; nor groan when we cu, 
them down. . ^^ ^ ^^ ^^^an body and its 

^' rSfup by a h Xand a thread tied round them, th. 
nerves taken up by ,^^ .^^ ^ ^^^^ .^^ ^^ ^^. 

outer end of the luni ^^^ ^^.^^ clearness m 

tjon. The like ot tm y > ^^ ^^^.^^ ^ ^^^^.^^^^ ^, 

^Tandtne t^o of Se most dreadful kind. i. most usually 
ease, and «"« ^ °;.^ ^.j^ down exactly in the centre of 
effects one ^vholes^depa^^ -« «-^h patients to be convmced 

the body. «.''" ""|-_„^ Ha.>d'e the palsied side and they will 
of the truth of what I say. Ha.d^e \ ^^^.^ ^^^^ ^^^^^^ 

teUyoutheydonotfee t a^k^hem ^^^^ ^^^^^^^^ ^^^^ 

""'f 'tlp'o^re whiM-iake it fo?'gianted that you are now 
P^ .-1 io see .hit the nerves are a very important as well a 
?rrnlrpVnofus,andthatwhen^^^^^^^^ 

a high degree, ^-^^^^JS:^^:'^:^ suddeuly and 
whole frame. It is t.ue ^«^' " .3,. .npieasant p.assi-ms I 

violently.aftected by any or j' P'^--^;',,^a'englv alarmed; II 
of the mind; especially by *e^'. »» ^ ^- , J^^ ^g ^ mu- 

b„t they will ^^';-^^:::tt:::^StZ .he .Vings; and . 
sical ins.rument when the O.VJ ^^ ^^^ ^^,^,y 

unless the person is a very de ica aflW-tions do 

g.eat, no bad effect-^-in -e elt o en. » ^ ^^^ ^^^^ | 

;.., gain the name -^^^^^^^^^ their disease has 
said to be diseased uo il f'^^'\^:^ , ^^^em habitually out 
operated so long and s . ^^ .^^^^Z;^^'', ^^.^ of. chronic cha^ 
of order.^o that ,..v. s d^^^^a^^^^^ ^^ ,^^^^^ 

.....ter. Iti»tr_uethU,^^^^^ ^^^ ^1^^ ^^^^ that the strongest 
_ ' .11 



rajb: Afj^Licr^iy. 221 



akd laost violent and terrific convulsions are caused by disor- 
dered nerves and head. Lest the reader should labor under a 
mistake concerning a disordered state of the nerves, I must not 
fail to tell him that it is one of the most difficult and inscrutable 
things that presents itself to the investigation of the philosophic 
iruad. It is totally unlike other diseases in anv part of the 

• animal frame The following defiaiton is that given in Reea? 
cyclopaedia, ^'Nervous diseases are those diseases which ap>\ 
pear to arise independentely of any organic change of structure, 

.and are therefore ascribed to some indefinite derangement of the 
sensible and irritable powers of the animal frame, of which the 
brain and nervous system are the seat and channel of coiorau- 
nication." . 

Take notice ,v he says,^^independent]y of any organic chancre 
of structure.' This is true, there is no change in the size, 
3hape, colour, or appearance of these little threads or nerves in 
us, v\^hen they become diseased. Even when patients are very 
much diseased, and the seat of their disease is no where else but 
m their nerves they appear j^ist as they did when the persons 
were well. '^When the power of transmitting sensation and 
motion »s lost, nutrition still goes on, and the nerves remain as 
large in a paralysed as in a healthv limb. Perhaps they may 
be diminished in size, when the whole limb begins to be redu 
ced. We know nothing of any changes in these organs, after 
long continued painful diseases, as cancers etc.," Rees' cyclo- 
^ch IS the peculiarity of their nature and structure, that when 
a person dies by gangrene or mortification, or in orther words rots 
while alive, they resist mortification more powerfully than most 
other parts. Yes, even after death , thev decay more slowly than 
most other parts. This may satisfy your mind how it is that 
persons can suffer so much and so long in their nerves even a 
long life, and ail the time appear pretty well, and at intervals 
have a great deal of strength; not only how it is that melan- 
choly persons appear so well and last so long as they often do 
but how ,t is that those actually and totally deranged can eat as' 
they do, and be strong at times, and live a long time I say 
from these facts you nmy see why those disordres are not more 
fatal than they are, but 1 do not mean that you can see any 
thing >f the cause and nature of them. I wish you speciallV 
to bear in miad another part of the definition given above- that 
IS this • ^' rberetore, ascribed to some indefinite derangemen t of the 
.sensiDle and irritable powers of the animal frame." Indetinite 
derangement; un-iefined, and 1 may add undefinabJe. Jt cannot 
be discovered, known or told what the derangement is, no, not 
by the most penetrating genius, ^'Wc arc profoundly i.^norant" 

19 "" 



222 CONSOLATIONS Oi 

says Rees, "not indeed for the want of attempts at explanatioo. 
for they have been abundant in all ages of physiology; but be- 
cause the operations are not cognisable by our senses, any more 
than those which take place in matter when it exhibits the 
phenomena of gravitation, electricity, magnetism, etc." It is 
as inscrutable as the first causes or essences of light, heat and 
cold, and many other things in metaphysical science and in re- 
ligion. These things are mysterious ; are mysteries. The lear* 
ned world have, some time since, after long and indefatigable 
and almost invincible labor, given up that these things cannot 
be fathomed and explamed, and that it is decidely the wisdom of 
man to let the first cause* and essences of things alone, and to 
attehd to their operations and effects, which come within the 
range of their intellectual powers, and which may be useful 
when known; the others are not useful, and therefore are not 
permitted to come within the compass of our understandings. 
They are the secret things which belong unto the Lord our God. 

All this I have thought it necessary to say to you concerning 
melanchol}', as you will hear of it under the name of nervous 
disorders ; that when you hear, you may know something about 
what you hear, having at least an outline of the nerves and 
their operations. 

But perhaps you feel at a loss and are ready to ask me why 
I have spoken to you so much in giving the various names and 
definitionsofmelancholy, about black bile, the spleen, the liver, 
the nerves etc., all which are parts of the body and not the 
mind; and this too, when the very first sentence which I penned 
under the head of melancholy, spoke of it as a diseased affection 
of the human mind, and when this is^ what mankind in general 
understand melancholy to be, and what it really is more or le'^^s. 
I would just reply to this enquiry, that the word melancholy itself, 
and all others that 1 have mentioned as conveying the same or 
nearley the same meaning, were used by the medical faculty, 
because they believed trouble in the mind to settle in some one or 
more of these parts of the body, or trouble originating in some 
one or more of these parts to find its way into the mind and 
trouble that. Thus believing them to be in some cases causes, 
and in others effects. This is undoubtedly the fact, of which 
more hereafter. 

I will now gratify you by proceeding to speak directly of the 
mind itself as being affected or diseased. Human beingaare com- 
posed of two constituent parts and no more, soul and body,or what 
is the same thing, riiind and matter. OvJr bodies are matter, and 
every thing thot we see or feel around us is matter. With this 
all are well acquainted. About our minds we know le^s, much 



iHE AFFLICTElJi 22'^ 

less, but we are^conscious that we have minds, and God, in great 
kindness, has clearly and fully revealed and declared the fact 
unto us. The mind is the immaterial or spiritual part of us; 
it is the intellectual or thinking and reasoning part. Not like 
the body, it receives its origin directly from God himself, and 
it is immortal or deathless, not tending to or subject yo death as 
the body is. None but God can put it out of existence or des- 
troy it. It is capable of enjoying much and of suffering much. 
To speak by the way of comparison^ infinitely more than the 
body. 

It suffers from melancholy, and melancholy is strictly in the 
mind, and has its origin and first seat there, when it arises from 
things without us, by our thoughts and desires going out to 
them. When any of our passions are moved, or excited, or at- 
tracted by external objects, m such a manner, to such an extent, 
and degree, and duration, as to make us habitually pensive or 
sad, or to have a tendency to sadness, then we are melancholy 
and our melancholy is in the mind. Perhaps you do not ap- 
prehend my meaning, and are at a loss to know how the mind 
is affected in the way that I mean. I will illustrate it by a few 
suppositions, examples and statements. In the first place, I 
will select the passion of fear. Suppose you yourself were 
quietly and composedly walking, in the silent hours of night> 
along a lonely path leading trough a thick copse of dismal 
woods, and that all of a sudden you should hear some unknown, 
loud and terrific noise right by your side, and that you should 
stand agast, and your heart beat quick and high. I would ask 
you what it \\ ould be that would cause your heart to beat thus? 
no person strikes you, nothing touches your body. It is your 
mind that is first operated upon, and that immediately and 
powerfully; and it as immediately and powerfully affects the 
body, therefore the heart^palpitates with hammering violence, 
and seems as if it would knock your sides out. 

I vv^ill now mention an instance that comes under the head of 
nostalgia, or hame sickness. A certain doctor Hamilton, sur- 
gf^on in the Britisfi army in the year 1781 , reported this case 
as coming under his cognizance and management. He tells us 
that a soldier, who was a Velchman, named Edwards, was 
sent to the h;)spit^il with a message from his captain, reques- 
ting him to be put on the sick list. He had only been a {ew 
months a soldier, was young and handsome and well made. He 
corn plained of a general weakness, but no fixed pain. The 
doctor could not discover what was the matter with him; he 
sus[)ected he might be under an inci|)ient typhus, and ordered 
whdt he judged necessary to obviate it. Some weeks passed 



*-i24 COKS'OLATIONS OF 



with little or no alteration, except that he was more meagre 
He never had any cough, bat became weaker and weaker. 
Exercise was recommended, he could not be roused to it; he 
was put on a course of strenghlening medecines, and wine was 
allowed him, but all in vain. At the end of three months he was 
greatly emaciated and had every appearance of one in the last 
stage of the consumption ; in short the doctor looked upon him 
as lost; but a this next visit he inquired of his nurse how he res- 
ted; the nurse replied that he had been very weak, and that all 
he had said was about his home and his friends ; v/hat he was 
able to speak was constantly on this topic. The doctor had 
never heard the slightest mention of this before f but upon in- 
quiry, he found he had talked most desirously of home from the 
very beginning. He immediateley broached the subject to him, 
and it was a theme which affected him; he talked on it with 
great alacrity, yet with a deep sigh when he himself mentioned 
his never more being able to see his friends. He asked the 
doctor with earnestness, if he would let him go home. The doc- 
tor told him. he was altogether too weak to think of svjch a thing, 
promised him assuredly that, as soon as he was able, he shtuld 
have six weeks to go home on furlow. He revived at the very 
thoughts of it. It seems he had requested leave to visit his na-* 
tive place, soon after he joined the army, but being only a 
recruit and but a few months from home, he was refused. 
This had hung on his spirits ever since. Thus the doctor 
clearly knew what was the matter with him. He saw distinc- 
tly that it was the strong and incessant longings of his mind 
to visit that dear and beloved spot which was the home of his 
youth, and where all his lively and ardent feelings of the first 
years of his life had glowed, been attracted and riveted. The 
breaking loose of these attractions and attachments of the mind 
was so dreadful and rending, that it tore down his body a;mv>st 
into the grave. From this time the doctor says (to use his own 
words.) ^'I entreated him to take food to strenghten him for his 
journey, and, as soon as he was able, to go out into the open air 
a little in the afternoon, when the weather would permit, that 
he might be the sooner able to go home. He listened eagerly 
to every word I said. In short, his appetite soon mended, and 
I saw in less than a week evident signs of recovery. He now^ 
became lively, though so weak that he could not get in or out 
of bed without assistance: he strove to set up; two men took 
him between them, m the heat of the day, and placed him on 
a seat they had erected for him on the beach, where he had a 
view of the shipping. In a little time he was able to walk. 
Every visit 1 paid him he resumed the subject of the furlow » 



1 



THE AFFLICTED. 225 

which I persisted in promising, seeing the good effects it had 
already prodi'ced, and, in less than two months from the time- 
he had received the promise, he was able to leave the hospital 
and go" home. This disease had its origin strictly in the mind, 
and is a very striking case of mental disorder. The dreams of 
the night are the imaginations and flights of the mind. Their 
povyeriui effects upon the body are well known to every person.. 
They sometimes cause them to call out and scream aloud, so 
as to terrifiy themselves and others. They affect the body so 
powerfully as to cause some persons to walk in their sleep and 
to endanger their lives, and some actually go out at the win- 
dows of high stories, and dash themselves to death on the 
ground. Some years ago, the writer dreamed that he was tra- 
velling and w^as attacked by a ruffian with a large knife in his 
hand. I met him with a club, but was unsucessful in depriv- 
ing him of his knife. 1 seized him with the knife in his hand, 
and by a powerful effljrt whirled bim under me, and held him 
with a firm grasp, but he had play enough wdth his right hand 
to turn the knife directly to my heart which he did, and I 
thought I felt it entering and finding its way into that vital ori- 
gan. At this moment I awoke; my body was greatly agitated, 
all in tremor, but especially my heart palpitated as if it would 
indeed knock my sides out. These w^ere the effects of the mind. 
Any person that recollects his or her dreams, can bear witness 
to things similar. I might go on to enumerate a multitude of 
cases in which the mind has, from some cause or other, been 
affected with joy or grief, etc., and greately affected the body. 
Persons have been greatly revived and elated by things agre- 
able and joyous, and have rejoiced in exultatitjn and ecsta- 
cies, yea, some have even died in fits of laughter; and their own 
imaginations have taken the lives of others. The account of 
the criminal whose imagination took his life, is now extensively 
known, and holds a place on record in our books of science. 
It is about as follows: for his crimes he was condemned to be 
hung. The doctors got permission to make an experiment upon 
him; made the necessary preparations, went to his prison, and 
told him his sentence was changed , that he was lobe bled todeath^ 
and that they had come to do it. They blindfolded him ; told hin:i 
hovv many minutes it would take Lijn to bleed to death; made 
an incision into his arm^ but not into a blood vessel; poured 
warm water oito hi.s arm, causing it to run off and into a vessel 
below, in nuch a way as to make him believe it was the running 
blood; held the watch, and kept reminding him how many mi- 
nutes he yet had. He grew paler and paler, and when they 
told him the hist minute had come, ho foil over and actually died-s 



22d CONSdLATIONS OF 

When the mind broods over a thing, or circumstance which it* 
considers caL mitous, and has difficulty to turn from it or fcjrget 
it, this is called grieving or grief. I will add one instance more 
of this character to explain the melancholy of the mind. Two 
years ago 1 was riding out for my health, in a strange neighbor- 
hood in the country. At the farther end of my ride 1 stopj>ed in 
a cabin to rest, and to see and converse with the humble inhab- 
itants. I was courteously received — a chair was handed. — The 
man of the house was not at hc»me — the mother was surrounded 
by three or four children, one nearly half grown. She seated 
herself again, and silently and attentively resumed her sewing. 
Being weary myself and desirous to rest and regain my strength 
before I should commence conversation, I viras also silent for some 
minutes, but my eyes were neither shut nor my ears stopped. 
The profound silence was broken and my retention attracted by 
a deep sigh from the good woman of the house. — I said nothing 
—in a few minutes 1 observed ^ianother such, only apparently more 
dtep, and in a few minutes more, a third one, which was so great 
as to cause her to raise her head and extend her chest in making 
it. I observed at the same time on every lineament of her coun- 
tenince, sorrow and grief to be glaringly depicted. I could no 
longer permit silence to reign — madam, said I, what is the matter? 
She slowly replied wi:h another deep sigh, that she had trouble — 
that within three weeks she had hurried three of her children. 
I tenderly, and with an affectionate tone added, that that was in- 
deed trouble. I listened with the deepest uiterest to the sad nar- 
jative of her uncommon trials. It was truly affecting. — The 
hardest heart could but have been moved, and the dryest eyes 
must have overflowed, while witnessing the overflowings of hers, 
and the heart-rending sobs which it was beyond her strength and 
fortitude to restrain. I conversed with her most soothingly and 
affectionately for a length of time. I brought to view every 
thought and consideration I could possibly think of, to calm and 
console her. When I hid said every thing that it was in my 
power to say, I told her that if she would call her remaining chil- 
dren around her, and have them to kneel down, I would pray with 
her. This she most gladly did, but by bursts of grief, in some 
measure interrupted my most earnest supplications and intreaties 
to the God who giveth life and taketh life, for his gracious smiles, 
and his kmd blessmgs, on her and her absent husband and their 
surviving children. When we arose from prayers, she seemed as 
if she considered my kindness as indescribably great. I was 
feeble — I had exhausted my strength, (for it w^s in my feeble 
days since I commenced the writing of this book,) and therefore 
thought it best to get home to the place where I then lived. I 



^PHE Ai^FLIOTE©. 237' 

nook hands with her and bid her an affectionate farewell. She 
Was at an utter loss for wovds to express her thanks to nie.— 
'I hough I cann >t myself describe her feelings, the reader may 
have some faint conception of her gratitude. This was the first 
and last time 1 ever saw her. 

I have introduced this mournful tale of wo to explain to you, 
by a striking examfile, the melancholy of the mind, and its effects 
upon the body. This poor bereft molher was in good health of 
body, and looked very hearty, but her mind, brooding and pouring 
over the unparalleled afflictions through which she had just come 
in a constant and uncontrolable way, retarded and made slug- 
gish, the healthy and active operations of her body, and caused 
her to sigh and weep. She sighed to gain relief.— She wept for 
the same purpose. The mind and body are united, and must act 
together, in order to their mutual ease and enjoyment. Her mind 
was almost entirely drawn off from the immediate concerns of 
her body, abstracted from it, and entirely set upon the scenes of 
heart-rending trouble and grief, through which she had just pass- 
ed. Therefore, the fluids of her body, and particularly her blood, 
flowed too slowly and filled, and oppressed her heart, not being 
thrown out with its usual activity. This insensibly caused her 
to inhale a large dmught of air into her lungs, and deeply into 
them. By this operation they were swelled to their full size by 
the air, which drove the blood that was in them, out of them, 
into the heart, and stirred it up to more lively action. Thus she 
gained temporary relief; and this is the philosophy of a sigh. The 
philosophy of tears is much the same. They are prepared by the 
Ihchrymal aparatus, for the purpose of moistening mbderately, but 
continually the eye, and the internal coats of the nose, but grief 
(as was the case with her) causes them copiously to overflow and 
trickle down our cheeks in briny rivulets; and by this uncom- 
mon and extraordinary evacuation, we gain temporary relief. 
These things, and these examples I have thought it necessary to 
adduce, in order clearly to set before you what I mean by mel- 
anpholy's commencing in the mind. You will see, however, 
more on the subject in what I am about to say, relative to the 
causes of melancholy in general. 

The caiises of melanclioly, so far as discernable by us, are, 
like the degrees and characteristics of it, very numerous and va- 
rious. All persons are, from one cause or another, at times, more 
or less low spirited, gloomy, melancholy. No one entirely es- 
capes all the surrounding, abounding and superabounding ills, and 
troubles, rnd trials, and perplexities, and calamities of life and 
time. Neither has any one strength and courage, or even hardi- 
hood to bear all these without feeling gloomy and oppressed. 



98S CONSOLATIOXS^ OF 

As it IS a fact then, that every soul is subject to dignppoi^tmeTTtJ; 
losses and crosses, troubles and trials; taking tliis view of the 
subject we might consider the whole mass of the population of 
the earth, as so many melancholy patients. Eve'-y one that will 
be candid, and speak out and tell us the truth, will admit that he. 
or she is at times, more or less discouraged and low spirited. 
Seme are much better calculated than others, to conceal their 
troubles, and bear up under them; more patient, firm and un- 
yielding. They will endure great trials and look cheerful and 
pleasant. But it is not so with all, far from it Some are much 
more liable to melancholy, and ei her are not inclined, or not able 
to rescist it so successfully. It has its effects however, and its 
powerful effects, upon ail, whether they can resist and conceal it 
or not. 

The first cause of melancholy which I shall mention, and 
%vhich is a great and prevailing cause, is a constitutional predis- 
position or tendency to it, in certain persons, which they injieri^ 
from their parents. The doctors very often tell such patients, 
that their trouble is constitutional, either originating in themselves 
or inherited from their immediate or more remote aiicestors. 
They mean ihat their whole constitution of body and mind, is of 
such a peculiar cast, and the mind so connected with the body, 
and particularly the nervous system of the body so peculiarly 
construct^xl, and delicately st''un2f, and toned, and of such ex- 
quisite sensibilities, that they are very strongly inclined, and prone 
to feel too acutely, and thereby to become habitually mehmcholy. 
Even these are not without blame, but are much less blameable 
than some others. 

Another orteat cause of melancholv, is disappointment in some 
gr:nd and favorite scheme, undertaking, object or project. An- 
other consists in the loss of something valuable, near and dear — 
as of property, or dear relations or friends by death, of which f 
have but now given an example in the poor wonan, and might 
give much stronger ones still.- Cases of persons being inconsola- 
ble about the loss of very affectionate mothers or fitliers, brothers- 
or sisters, husb^mds or wives, &lc. r^nd pining aw^ay in hopeless 
m'^lanoholy. Another great and very serious cause is, disap- 
pointment in love. With the utmost chastity, gravity and digni- 
ty, I wotild speik on this subject. 1 consider it one, of no less 
moment among mankind, than most of th.ose I have already men- 
tioned, or sli ill likely be able to mention. I consider it of so 
great weight and magnit'ide in society, that at one time I had 
come to a determination to introduce a spcial article- on it, in 
tiiis work, tmder the title of— The disappointed lovc'^s consola- 
fion— my limits would not admit it. j\ly design was to teach. 



4 




Tim APFLICTED. 229 

instruct, caution, warn and guide all young persons of both sexes 
in this most delicate and vitally important business. In order to do 
what I could to prevent imprudences and improprieties between 
them, and those destructive and fatal consequences of disappoint- 
ment, which so often occur in society. We very frequently hear 
of persons not only becommg melancholy from this source, but 
falling into total and frightful derangement of mind, Jt is found 
by the mediCol faculty, that a very considerable proportion of the 
inmates of our lunatic asylums, are sent there by disappointment 
in love. The female part of m mkind, from many considerations, 
and amongst the rest from dire necessity, do a great deal more 
at concealing their troubles, thm the male. Many, very many 
of our finesi females, far more than the superficial observer is at 
all aware of, pine away from this kind of disappointment, letting" 
no person know what is the matter with them, if they can help it. 
The other sex more rudo and savage, fight duels, &c. &c. 
Though they too, in many instances, fill into the deepest melan- 
choly, from this source, and into insanity itself. 

I have long thought that much more might be done and ought 
to be done on this subject, by the sober, wise, moral and morali- 
zing part of our community, than is doing, especially by the wri- 
ters of ourd ly; and more especially still by the editors of news- 
papers, those far travelling wide ranging vehicles of knowledge, 
which are seen by almost ever person in the community, no mat- 
ter how obscure. That much, much more sh tild be done by 
these* did 1 say? infinitely better nothing at all than what 
they do do. Several columns of almost every number of thf m, 
are crowded with fictions and high wrought love tales, having 
very little moral in ihpm, or none at all, and mnch better — in* 
comparably better calculated to increase the evils of which ! am 
speaking, than to prevent and do them avviy — than to make less, 
meliorate, mitigate and remove the woes and suflTerings of huniriii 
kind. Some few it is true, are exempt from this charge, but not 
so with the great mass. Editors put them in to amuse and tickle 
the fancies of their readers, especially the youns and giddy. And 
I find it very difficult to persuade myself to believe that th» y do 
not do it in ord»^r to swell the list of their subscribers, and in- 
crease the weigh? of their purses. Even our most aged and grave 
political editors are not free from this charge. It h^is become so 
univers'dly fiishionable, that it seems as if no political ptper d.ues 
sliow its face without havinjr inscribed thereon a large inscription 
and impression of this futile ana mischievous trash. [ woidd 
rejoice to see the last vestige of it swept awMy, and greatly re- 
joice to see the columns that it now fills, filled with sound moral 
philosophy on thusame point: gravely, and iu a parental manner 



230 CONSOLATIONS OF 

giving those lessons which would have a tendency to teach and 
induce both sexes, of a marriageable age, to act most strictly and 
rigidly correct towards each other. To lay aside ail knight-er- 
rantry, gallantry, and coquetry, and every species and degree of 
deceit and insincerity with regard to marriage; and to put on, 
and observe, and exhibit the most modest, chaste, sincere, honor- 
able, pure and dignified conduct towards each other, with respect 
to every thing that has the least bearing towards this vitally irn* 
portant matter. And when they have serious designs of forming 
this sacred contract and alliance, to do it with all possible pru- 
dence, honorably and above board, with the soundest and most 
inviolable honesty, integrity and fidelity. Thus, much evil would 
be shunned, and much happiness secured. 

That young man, who, by words or actions, even in the slight- 
est way, makes a young lady believe that he has serious designs of 
seeking her hand and heart in the sacred bonds of wedlock, and 
thus enlists her feelings, when he has no such designs, would find 
a home aliogeiher too good in a solitary cell of a penitentiary. 
And that young lady, who, rudely and wantonly, or even careless- 
ly, encourages a young gentleman to settle his feelings upon bet 
with hope of gaining her affections, and who does not modestly, 
bu! fully and firmly let him know that she has no such mutual 
de-^igns (i^ she really has none,) deserves a home but little better. 
Upon all such deceitful and double deali ig, society should frown 
wiih stern and inexorable contempt. This prudent, chaste, cor- 
rect and dignified course of which I have spoken, I would most 
seriously recommend to all the unmarried who design to marry — 
and to every one who has the great ur happiness and the almost 
unparalleled trii^l, to labor under disippoini^d bwp^ from whatever 
cause; either from his or her own fault, or the fault of others, or 
by '\ special act of Providence, I would say, in brief, that per- 
hvips this object is no» the only person upon the earth worthy of 
your love. It may be f^r otherwise, and there may be a thousand 
and ten thousand not f^r from yon, equally worthy of all your 
affoctions, your whole heart; and a sufiicient number of them 
within your reach and power. Why then, nee»ilessly and foolish- 
ly permit the sungs of disappointment to connnne to go^d yovi? 
Why suffer your mind to fJl into gloominess and melancholy? 
Cn^ you not regain yourself as well as the widower and rhe 
v^iriow, when their companions are torn from them by death? 
Be yourself, my friend, put on all yonr original strength and 
courage, self-comm ind and independence, and restrain and resist 
your feelings courageonsly. 1 do not mean that you should treat 
the object of which ynij h-u^e been disappointed, with the leist 
disrespect, uulessit has manifestly deceived so to be treated. If 



;rHE AFFLICTED. 231 

in the judgment of others as well as yourself it has, I will even 
^Uow you to hate it, and thus you will cease to love it, and sur- 
mount your disappointment. But whether or not, by all means 
turn your thoughts, ^nd tear your loves away from it, and in due 
time, as soon as convenient, turn them to another, and thus you 
will sooner and more entirely forget the former; your wound will 
heal, and your heart will become whole again. It is now time for 
me to return from this digression and regularly to pursue ray 
subject. 

Passing over a number of rather inconsiderable causes of mel- 
» ancholy, I shall speak of only two more. The first is a sedentary 
and confined life, being shut in from the air. Those whose busi- 
ness confines them to the house during the hours of day or sun- 
shine, as well as at night, are the whole female part of the com- 
munity, besides many of our mechanic^, shop and store keepers, 
together with all classes and orders of studious, and learned and 
professional men. AH our females, with some slight exceptions, 
both in country and town, are confined to the house. Those in 
the country, though confined, are not sendentary and inactive. 
They have their sewing to do, but little or none that is unnecessa- 
ry or superfluous; and this is much interrupted and laid aside to 
attend to domestic and culinary concerns; tbeii lives are therefore 
athletically active, and this is also true with respect to many in 
towns and cities, particularly the poor, and all those who are hired 
to do domestic and culinary labor A very large proportion howev- 
er, in our towns and opulent cities, spend their lives closely, con- 
fined to their needles and their seats, some to make their livings, 
others to adorn and decorate their bodies, or rather, alas! to de- 
form and make frightful their bodies; by superfluous, extrav- 
agant, vaincindToolish dresses, with their ruffles, flounces, figiires 
and embroidery, requiring a hundred stiches where plain ones 
would require only ten; and each of these ten would speak a 
louder word in their fuvor, in the judgment of men of wisdom 
and re-^l character, than the whole hundred tak^^n together. Loud- 
er did Isiy, the wlinle hundred taken together speak but one 
Word, and thnt is a very weak and feeble one, viz: folly. Fj lly 
indeed, for instead of gaining any thing, tln^y very frequently l.)se 
their health, and are added to the list of the melancholy. And 
thus not merely by being confined in making gewgaw dresses and 
bonnets, but by cornpressin^r their chests and destroyin<i the act 
tion of their lungs by tight lacing. — The aspiring, restless, un- 
satisfied, cliscontented state of their minds, tends greatly to the 
same tinlu^ppy end. They are not stndenis, hut they study, pon- 
der, hope and fear. Their nervous sysiems are much move deli* 



232 CONSOLATIONS OF 

Gate, and of course their sensibilities far more acute. These are 
the ca'ises of much melancholy among them. 

There is one, and only one other cause of melancholy which 
I shtili mention, and that is a studious life added to a sedentary 
and confined one. This belongs almost exclusively to the male 
sex. It is to men we look for teachers, orators, writers, authors, 
doctors, lawyers and divines, and this very properly too, and ac- 
cording to the arrangement of nature. It requires great and al- 
most invincible strength of constitution, to endure a long and 
severe course of study. Tt is, generally speaking, our most talent- 
ed men that devote themselves to a studious life. Though others 
sometimes do, through vanity and want of self-knowledge^ yet 
they either discover their mis-ake and turn back, or creep along 
in such a manner as never to kill themselves by study. Others 
who are really gifted with strong minds, are aspiring and ambi- 
tious to acquire knowledge and to excel in their calling or pro- 
fession. It is righr for the ladies to desire to be cleanly and neat, 
and to have a good and reasonable degree of taste in their dresses, 
but not to surpass the bounds of reason and moderation, and to 
fnake themselves appear fulsome and disgusting. They too, 
should acquire knowledge, it is right for students to acquire a 
large fund of general knowled/^e, and to desire to excel their pred- 
ecessors and cotemporaries, eepecially in their particidar profes- 
6i<>ns, that every one may do all the good ihat he h'^is powers to do; 
but he should not desire to amass knowledge and to excel at every 
expense and all hazards — at the expense of his health, and hap- 
piness and life. This however, hundreds and thousands do, 
6ome prompted by good motives, others by an unhallowed ambi- 
tion to excel, merely to excel and triumph over others. Many 
are not aware of their danger till their constitution is undermined, 
shocked, enfeebled and destroyed. 

As the class of mankind of which I am now speaking, is the 
iiighest in society, and therefore deserves our first and best atten- 
tion, and IS I wush to add a f nv more remarks relative to nervous 
disorders in connection with general and local diseases, I will 
endeavor to give the reader a concise but comprehensive descrip- 
tion of the very common process in which students become 
diseased and melancholy. Students who are really studentsand wor- 
thy of the name, devote and apply themselves with all tlie energ'es 
of theii minds; and are so entirely engrossed and absorbed in 
their favorite pursuit, that no common thing turns them aside 
from it by day, and the darkness of the night they expel from 
around them by the steady blaze of their nocturnal, domestic 
luminaries. During these mental labors there is no part of their 
lM)dies Vi^hich they can advantageously use, to give it any thing 



THE AFFLICTilU. 23S 

'like proper and needful exercise but iheii eyes and their norves, 
and these they not only use, but in many instances, greatly abuse, 
particularly their nerves, of which I shall say more hereafter. 
Such is the constitution and physiology of their nature, and the 
connection of their souls and bodies, that it is greatly hazardous 
to etnploy the one to the neglect of the other. Either course is 
ruinous. The minds of students are wearied by too constant 
and intense labor and activity, as vvell as the nerves of their bodies. 
Whether or not, holy and happy, disembodied spirits ever beconje 
weary in the active discharge of their pleasant duties, we are un- 
able to say. It is certain, however, that if they do, it is not a 
weariness which reduces their happiness, but their resting again 
^ends to the perfection of it. Heaven is sometimes represented 
as a place of rest, at others, as a place of great activity. The 
world in which we dwell we know to be a world of sin, and mis- 
ery, and imperfection. Our souis and bodies are diseased and 
liable to be weary and enfeebled. The scriptures speak of the 
soul as bemg "weary'*' — -as ''fainting" and being "grieved," &c. 
We have no difficulty in believing that our bodies can become 
weary. About the weariness and sufferings of onr souls inde- 
pendently of our bodies, we know nothing by experience, in our 
preseni state. It is perhaps illogical and incorrect to speak of the 
one as suffering without the other; such is the intimacy and 
CiOSi'nassof their connection. But it is not incorrect to speak of 
trouble ccmmencing in rheoneor theother, as I h ive spoken at large 
in explaini'ig the commencement of in»4anch(ly, when it has its 
origin in the mind. Neither can it be incorrect to speak of trouble 
commencing in both at once, as I am now doing. In the mind 
and pirtsof the body by excessive exercis^'^, in other pnrts of the 
be dy, by the want of exercise. Perh^ips the reader is re^d} to 
ask n)e how the minds of stuJents can become weary in acquiring 
knowledge, when their minds constantly take d»^light in this ex 
ercJ^e. If i< were true that their minds constantly took delight^ 
and met with nothing unpleasant, I might have difficulty to an 
swer, but as this is not the fact, I presume 1 shdl have none. The 
very labor which their nunds have in gaining knowledge, and the 
sk»wness with which they are compelled to do it, and the disip- 
poin^ments they very frequenHy meet with, when they have 
g lined it, are abundantly sufficient to weary their minds, say 
ing nothing about the uneasiness of their bodies all the while. 
But we know much more, and are able tos[)eak with a great deal 
more clearness, concerning their bodies, and it is always more 
profitable to confine ourselves to things that come within our 
rexh. The wmt of exercising certain parts of their bodies, 1 
look upon as one of tlio main causes of students becoming di*^ 

90 



934 CONSOLATIONS OF 

eased and melancholy. Our bodies were made for action. Theix 
action is two fold, voluntary and involuntary. Their involuntary 
action is the action of their stomachs and bowels; heart, lungs, 
liver and other internal vessels. Our lungs heave without our 
choosing to breathe, therefore, v.hen we go to sleep, we do not forget 
to breathe. Our hearts beat, and the blood goes out of them, and 
flows throughout our frames, not by any volition of ours. After the 
process of swallowing, the food moves along through our stom- 
achs, and bowels, by the same involuntary motion. It is in 
the same manner that the perspirable matter or sweat, comes 
forth and goes off. it requires only a glance of thought for 
a person to see the correctness of this, and the difference 
there is between the voluntary and involuntary motion of 
human bodies. Their voluntary motion is the moving of a hand, 
leg, or the whole body or any part of it, from place to place. 
Any one can see the diflerence betwetm a person's raising his 
hand, and the beating of his heart. Man was made for this two 
fold action, this douiDle motion. By volunta»y motion he was 
prepared to labor and earn his bread, and while he was doing this, 
involuntary motion -was to go on, and his food was to nourish 
him. Voluntary motion was to assist and facilitate in\oluntary 
motion. Students, while studying, suspend voluntary motion, 
and therefore all the involuntary motions of their bodies, as above 
described, are retarded, and. general injury ensues, their food does 
not regularly and properly nourish them, though their appetites 
for a length of time continued good. When they persist in this 
course, some for a greater, and some for a less number of years, 
not generally less than three or four, those whose constitutions 
are not uncommonly good, feel themselves to be enfeebled and 
diseased. Some are diseased in a more general way, and tjien it 
is usual to CiU their disease by a general term, (viz:) dyspepsia, 
which I have before explained to convey the idea of a generally 
deranged state of the digestive organs, stomach, bowels, liver, 
&c. In others, the trouble settles on some one of these organs; 
more commonly the liver than any other, and then it is called the 
liver disease, or in more scientific language, biliary or hepatic 
derangement. But in bodi cases the diseases are generally be- 
lieved to commence in the stomach. 

In giving an account or description of the manner in which 
students become diseased and melancholy, I have now spoken of 
the excessive exercise of their minds, considered independently 
of their bodies, and of the want of action or motion in their > 
bodies. But there is another part or system in their bodies 
which I have said was not only exercised by students, but toose 
verely exercised, and abused. I mean the nerves. To them 1 have 



THE AFFLICTED. 23^ 

already alluded, and of them promised to speak more at length, 
Ihave said that they were one out of two parts of the hody^ 
mainly used hy students in acquiring knowledge, and very gener- 
ally over used, that is, abused. As 1 proceed, 1 expect it will ap- 
pear, -that taking one view of them, they are exercised too much, 
but taking another, not enough. That is, they are exercised too 
much by the mind, but not enough in connection with the body., 
or as a part of the body. The mind is an immaterial, spiritual 
substance, connected but not mixed with the body. Its connec- 
tion is generally allowed and believed to be more immediately 
with the brain and nerves, than any other part. It uses the nerves 
as its great organ or instrument. Therefore, when the minds oif 
students begin to labor and search after knowledge, they use the 
nerves in this great and laudable work and pursuit. And using 
them, and continuing to use them intensely and incess>?ntly, they 
become oppressed, al>nsed, disordered. I have already told the 
reader, at length, what is meant by disordered nerves. As they 
are a part of the body, it is manifest that if the body were exer- 
cised they would.be exercised, and thereby be better able to serve 
the mind and to endure its severe use of them. 

Thus I have described the manner in which students most com- 
monly become diseased; and in doing ity 1 have all along allvided 
to a preventive or saf<^vgurird for tfiem. This safe-guard is ex- 
ercise, the regular and systematic exercise of their bodies. In 
this all agree, the learned and unlearned. I have never yet heard 
a dissenting voice. The medical faculty cry loudly and strongly 
— exercise! exercise! exercise! Hundreds, and I may say thous- 
ands, of the most talented, and promising sons of America, in our 
schools, and colleges, and seminaries, and in private, fall a prey 
to disease and melanrholy, and in many instances, to death itself, 
in the manner above described. Students are more liable to dis- 
ease and melancholy than sedentary mechanics, because they 
use the mind more and the body less. The preventive and cure 
then, are known, and all are sensible of it, even students them- 
selves, in some measure at least. But their hunger and thirst for 
knowledge, drive them on, contrary to their better judgment, to 
their own ruin; and thus the finest intellectual flowers of our na- 
tion, are constantly, either withering around us and dragging out 
a sad, miserable, melancholy, and almost useleps life, or failing 
directly into pvematurc graves, and leaving parents and friends to 
rnourn and grieve under the stings of disappointed hope. The 
time for reform has long since come. All, as I have said, are 
sensible of the evil and know the rc^medy. Some few% who stand 
at the head of education, particularly in the eastern sections of 
4ur land,. have girded up their loins, gut on istrength and courage 



/i36 C&IS'SOLATIONS OF 

and resolved to bring about this greatly needed reformation, in 
the mode of acquiring an education; and are laboring and stri- 
ving in this most commendable enterprize. They not only say to 
students that it would be good to take exercise, but they take 
hold of them and tear them away from their books, like tearing a 
miser from his gold, and say to them "you shall take exercise, 
and useful and profitable exercise, regularly, a cei tain number 
of hours every day, in some mechanical or agricultural business.'* 
This is good — this is at it ought to be. Flattering success has 
already crowned their efforts. This reformation is just com- 
mencing, in a very slight degree west of the Alleghany Mourr- 
tains, and my only fears are, that the wisdom, foresight, courage 
and perseverance of those who stand at the head of it, will not 
be commensurate to the magnitude and desirableness of the en- 
terprize, and the noble object v»^ill remain to be accomplished by 
their successors. My warmest desires are, that it may not be so, 
but that success may crown present efforts. The intrinsic magni- 
tude of this matter to the prosperity and glory of our nation, in 
literature and science, I consider a sufficient apology for this di- 
gression. Students, owing to the great and excessive use of then' 
minds and nerves, and the inertness and torpidity of their bodies 
furnish more cases of melancholy, of one degree or another, than 
any other class of mankind. 

I will now add what i further designed, relative to their nerves, 
in connection with general and local internal diseases. 1 have 
already described these diseases with their origin, and disordered 
jierves with the origin of their disorder In order to lay before 
the reader in a perspicuous manner what I have in view, I shall 
be compelled to turn his attention to a word or two more oh 
the anatomy and physiology of the nerves. 

It is an obvious fact that a part of our nerves terminate on our 
outward surface, and another part on our internal parts. Far the - 
larger proportion terminate in the skin. — Those that go inwardly, 
go to the organs of digestion, circulation, fespiration, secretion, 
&c. Some physicians denominate those that go outwardly, the 
nerves of animal life, and those that go inwardly, the nerves of 
organic hfe. It matters not whether this distinction is correct or 
not, so far as it concerns what I have in view. Correct or not, it 
is certain that man resembles plants, in his growth. Plants grow 
out of the soil by means of their roots. Man's stomach and 
bowels contain tlie soil out of which he grows. Plants are said 
to have organic life, and are, with very few exceptions, destitute 
of feeling. — This is the reason why their life is called organic 
life. When physicians speak of organic life in man, they meaa 
those parts of him in which he icsembles plants, such as I 



THE AFFLICTED. 



23? 



Pave spoken of. By animal life I mean all those parts and opera- 
tion^ ill him, as the flowing of the blood, respiration, motion, 
&c. in which he resembles all other animals. Saying nothing 
more about these distinctions, it is a fact, thtt the nerves whicli 
go inwardly, as I have described, are much fewer than those that 
go outwardly, and they being the channels of knowledge, it fjl- 
lows, that we can know much less of our internal than of our 
extern d members, much less of our heart and lungs, sJornach, 
bowels and liver, than of our hands and feet. The wisdom or 
our Creator in this is conspicuous. — He never designed us to hire 
'as much dealing with our internal parts, as with things and be- 
ings without us, and around us. Ne cannot see within us, and 
we should know nothing of the forms of our iniernal members, 
if we were not to open animal bodies,_and see, and feel, and ex- 
amine their internal parts by our external senses. We should 
know nothing of the shape and size of our hearts, livers, &;c, 
indeed we would not even know that we have livers at all, saying 
nothing about their size or offices, notwithstanding the liver is the 
largest viscas in us. Fewer nerves go to the heart and liver 
than to any other intern il organs. There is therefore, very little 
feeling in them, when in a healthy state j when diseased they 
can give us pain enough. 

There is no necessity for our liaving any knowledge of our 
internal parts, except when diseased. The great design of pain, 
in a physiological sense, is to direct the attention of the mind to 
the parts in which the pjin is, in order that we may do what we 
can to relieve them. x\cute diseases, whether local or general, 
increase of course, the nervous sensibilities. Those more dull. ^ 
and heavy, and torpid, as the palsy, &c. deaden their sensibili^ 
ties. Melanchol} persons are irenerally subject to both acute 
and torpid sensations, being tossed about from one extreme to 
another. This is thc^ case with students who become melancholy. 
N>th withstanding all their nerves, both those terminating externally 
and internally, are at times, greatly quickened in their seasibilitiesy, 
yet it is a fact that they labor under very great mistakes, wi!h 
x"espect to their i iternal diseases. This arises out oi^ the obscure 
and uncertain reports which are sent to the mind, from the ab- 
dominal viscera, along those ct^mparatively few nerves, with 
which they are supjdied; as also from the generally derana(^d 
state of all their lirsrves. Hy[)ochondriac and hysteric patients^ 
receive so many yarioiis, f ilse, untrue, exaggerated and contra- 
dictory reports from the abdomen, that they fancy a thousiud 
tilings that are untrue with respect to the stale of things there. 
Hence, th^^ir anxieties, and distress, and drea<lfnl f()rpf)odings 
coi)cerning. ilmv health. About all other matters their judg^ 

20^ 



^3B CONSOLATIONS OF 

inents are as sound and correct as they were before they becamt. 
diseased. These observations Wi 11 tend to show the reasons of 
their frequent mistakes, when tlien disease is general, and has 
not settled upon any particular part. When it has done this, 
say upon the liver, tnere is another cause which leads them into 
error, and that is sympathy. 

From what 1 have said upon the nervous system, the reader 
iS prepared to see how pain or any other feeling will pass from 
the part pained or atfecied, towards the head, and be the same 
kind of pain or distress, ail liie way, or it may be, more in some 
particular part than in another. Thus when the liver is diseased.' 
there is usually the same kind of pain felt up the right siiouider. 
The original pain in the liver is called an idiopathic atiection, the 
other is called a sympa\hetic afiection. You can easily see how 
these sympathetic atiections can go throughout the whole system, 
followjng the nerves. They are not confined to the nerves ex- 
clusively, but communicated by them to other parts. The Dow- 
els, lungs and heart &c. will sympatiiize with the liver, and it 
with them, when they are diseased. These sympathies are more 
general, and at the same time more shifting and uncertain, and 
distressing, when all or any of tne abdominal viscera are diseased 
than in any other disordeis. it is owing, as I have said, to the 
peculiar connection of the nervous system to these parts. It is 
but little matter what you call pain, idiopathic, syuipathetic or 
imaginary, it may be equally distressing under any of these 
names. The minds of students who l)ecome diseased, as alx)ve^ 
either imagine that they have dreadful and alarming diseases, 
which in fact they have not, or their minds, in the way that Ihave 
said, do greatly magnify their real diseases, and thus they suffer 
in the most dreadful manner, and they become disheartened, low 
spirited, gloomy, melancholy. Uponjhe whole, from all that 1 
have brought to view on the subject, the reader is now prepared 
to sre that there is scarcely any class of sufferers that drag out 
as miserable lives as the melancholy, particularly those whose 
2]erve3 are very much out of tone. When from some, or any, or 
ill the; causes ab6ve mentioned, they become very bad, so effect- 
ually deranged in their nerves, as to fancy that their legs are 
Tuade of glass or wax, so that no person must touch them, lest 
they be broken all to pieces, or melt, if they go near to the fire- 
or to imagine that they cannot walk, &.c. 6lc. they have then gone 
beyond thebmitsof melancholy, and become deranged or insane. 
Insanity arising from these causes, is not usually of the worst 
kind however, for the patients very frequently recover. 

For the sake of those who may be in an incipient state of niel- 
/>ncholv. and at a loss to 1-Jiow what is the matter with thera« L 



THE AFFLICTEJJ. 'i80 

will subjoin a few of the most prominent sympfoms of theii 
trouble, particularly as it respects the nerves. You wiU feel a 
general uneasiness ull over you, and truly be at a loss to know 
what is the matter, especially, if you have no local disorder. 
And what will be astonishing to you, you will suddenly become 
better, and feel perhaps perfectly uell again, and it may be better 
th n usual. And, if you are not really restored, th»s wtll be 
your course con inually. As you g ow worse there wdl be little 
spasms of the ne ves all through you, jerkings or tvvitchings 
which will not give you much if any pain at all. 7'he jerkings 
of the flesh of a be- f, immediately after the hide is taken off, is 
the most striking exhibiuon of nervous ; witching that I have 
ever been able to discover. — If yours are bad they will resemUe 
them. If they are acute they will resemble, in some measure the 
prickings of needles — imd there may be, at times, larger shoots 
or dar s of pain, commonly ailed stitches, but these do not take 
place very often, unh?ss in the chest or abdomen, v\here there is 
local disease. Ail those S' mptoms are more abundant on parts 
locally diseased. You may have spells of lethargic sleepiness, 
and contra:ry spells of sleeplessness. You will be at times, very 
weak, and at others feel yourself uiicommonly strong. Your ap- 
petite will likelv^ be very {rre.ulir — in sho 't, this will be the 
sta^e of your whole system, in all tire thoughts, and views, and 
feelings, and operations of your mind and body, and 3^011 will be 
alinosi entirely unhke yourself. 

All these things I have thought it necessuy and advisable t& 
£ay and premise, in order to prepare the way, and be better able 
to console the melancholy. 

There is o^ie other remark which I consider highly important, 
and whi-'h I must not fail to add to the. already lonz catalogue of 
the foregoing. It is concerning those persons who are piofessors 
of religion, an I wfio fall into melancholy, and come to the con- 
clusion that they are the m *st wicked wretches on the earth — • 
thiit they are guilty of all manner of crirnes. in thought, word 
and deed — and particularly that they have committed the sin 
against the Holy Ghost. No doubi their real sins and crim s 
are numerous enough and bad enough, and there are imquestiun- 
ably some cases of very wicked p; rsons, who, there is no doubt^ 
have actually committed the sin against the Ildy Ghost, and 
have been given up by a righteous God, to awful desperation. 
These are more commonly male persons, who have sinned against 
great light ; but far the larger pnrt of those who charge themselves 
with the commission of this sin, are females, most of them in an 
advanced stage of life, and laboring under nervous derange-^ 
ment. and hysteric atieclions. of v/hgso delicate and dise?.sed 



^40 CONSOLATIONS OF 

condition Satan takes advantage to annoy and dishess thein 
Thii (h«y have not, ul leasi in ninety-n-ne rases out of a bumU 
red, committed the blasphemy against the Holy Ghost, appears 
fion their recoverinif nnd becv)ming more comfortable, and ce.-s- 
ii)^ to charge themsjives vvi;h the c >-nmi5rsion of that most fright- 
fni }f ail sins. It appears also, fro-n the fact that othiirs kn \v 
th^Mr characters to be better than they s-jy they are, and from the 
unreasonable charges which ihey bring .igaiust themselves, which 
o:iiers, in their sober senses, can see weie impossible. Like th ^se 
I have meiitione.l, who fancy the nselvfs to be niade of glass, 
their sensati ns arid perceptions are morbid, and not to be do- 
pe. iied upon. Generally speaking it is not best to reason with 
tuein too minutely. — It is advisable, when a good opportunity 
occurs, to make the absurdities of wlrat iliey siy, to stare them 
in the face as glaring y as possible. 1 h^ve myself observed the 
V ry strikingly good erfecis of this. They shon d not be treated 
With two mucn indulgence, nor too m jcii severity. The iaw of 
kindness is decidedly the best wiihvviiich to rule them, and to 
bri- g liiem to tliemselves, and into a more comfortable condiion. 
The enemies of religion bring it as one of their heaviest charges 
against Ciirisiianity, ttiat it h s been the cause of a gr-at many 
p opie, in didereni ges, becoming nielancholy. A inure false 
charge could not be thought of. It is not religion, but the want 
of r, that makes poor mortals here below, me aiicholy. IUli«j[ic)n 
revives the heart and hopes of man, beyond any other thing that 
can be brought to act upon him, in this odierwise gloimiy and 
mournful vale of tears. It is truly a heavenly light which disjsek 
the gross darkness from ihe p ^o^de, and fills their minds aid hearts 
With light, and joy, and hope — u hope which is an anjJior of the 
soul, otli sure and steadfast, and which entess into -that within 
tiie heavenly veil. Is rnehucholy a new disease? did it originate 
with Christianity? N , on the con'rary, 11 nation.-, both an ci.nt 
and modern, christian and heathen, have been subject to it. It 
is true that professors^f religion, who become melancholy, hive 
ramy and very alarming fears about religion, and well they may. 
The clear solution of the whole matter is, that G('d, svho gave 
them religion, with all its supports, c()mK)rts and hopes, in his 
r'gateous sovereignty, and for hi^ own wise purptises,^is pleased 
to withhold the enjoyment of it from them for a season. — Aiid^ 
iherefore, they are in disiress, and mourn their loss, and are mel- 
ancholy. But ever) isiing tlianksgiving to his adorable an! gra- 
cious Majesty, he infhlibly restorej= it again to his children, imd 
t leir heatts are revived again, and their mouths shout aloud for 
y-y . It api^ears iherefore, that it is as I s^iid, not lehgiorr, but the 
^ant of it, that has a tendency to make persons melaiichoiy r 



THli AFFLlCfTED. 24l 

And now, after so long a time, it has become my duty to visit 
you, my uniiappy, low spirited, gloomy, melancholy, afflicted 
friend. 

From some one or more of the foregoing causes, and in some 
one or more of the forementioned ways, the state of your mind is 
not desirable, is not happy — you have fallen into a state of des- 
pondency and discouragement. In your view, the world has, in 
a great measure, lost its attractions and its charms= It seems to 
you that there is not as much light admitted into it, as there 
used to be. All the beautif il forms and alluring colors, appear 
to you to be very much defaced — the flowers and leaves have fa- 
ded and fallen — creation is unrobsd — to you it is perennial win- 
ter — ihesun, the greater light that rules the day, and moon, the 
lesser light that rules the night, with all the stars, appear to you 
to be suffering an almost continual eclipse. You now, very se?- 
dom see the encouraging and glorious bow of covenant and 
of promise, in the heavens, notwithstanding it frequently presents 
itself in all its glowing colors, and full orbed glories. Thus 
your days slowly roll and drag along, with only now and then a 
brighter one, and that but little brighter, perhaps having a bright 
hour or two. For all the busy, lively and cheerful employments, 
works and ways of men, you have, in a great measure, lost your 
relish. The pleising and animating expression of your counte- 
nance is gone; wseldom or never, in these days, are the linea- 
ments of your features wrought up into the pleasant and desira- 
ble paroxism of a smile or a laugh. Truly sorrow and melan- 
choly hang heavy upon your brow, and )'our heart is sad and sick, 
and thus [ find you this day. Of a truth, my friend, all the sym- 
pathies of my soul are moved for you, and if I can do you good 
I will. Your sufferings are real and great, whatever be tlie cause, 
imaginary or real : whether it is in part or entirely your own fault, 
or you are altogether without fault, or even the shadow of fault 
in the matter. If, in vour own heart you know that you have 
brought this state of things upon you, by your own improprieties 
or im;)rudonces,f<^r that you should be sorry. Bui you may very 
easily mike bad worse, by sorrowing improperly. You should be 
sorry in such away, nsto be so guarded, as to shun all such im- 
proprieties and iniprudf^nees in future, and not repine and pine 
away ahout things that vou cannot now help. Saying nothing 
more abnul the cmse'sof your trouble, f will proceed to observe, 
that in all prolKibility you were, and are still, in a great measure, 
and m'jst likely totilly ignorant of the nature of il, 

Oiir most sentimental and siund poet says, on a matter of 
highest moment, of moment paramount to all others. — "To know 
our disease is half our cure." There is no case in whigh this-caa 



2i2 C'OI^SOLATIONS OP 

be rnoie true, than in the case of melancholy. Had you a clear 
and perfect understanding of your trouble, in all its windings, and 
lurkings, and deceitfulness; in short did you know what is the 
matter with you, it would he half your cure, you would know 
how to manage yourself. But this is knowledge very difficult to 
obtain. On this account I have premised so many things on the 
subject.. In order to obtain it, you will first, naturally and ne- 
cessarily turn your mind to your own feelings and symptoms. 
Though this is the first, yet it is not always the most certain and 
effectual means to arrive at this knowledge. These means you 
will of course use — use them did I say, you cannot help it, 
it is impossible for you to have feelings and symptoms, without 
your mind's turning to them, and considering what they are, 
and what they threaten, what is their nature and tendency. — 
Therefore, you ra-.ist be allowed to take this course. As animal 
and sensitive beings, it was ordained that we should know what 
our condition is, by observing our.feelinors and symptoms; and 
generelly this is not only the first, but the most direct and best 
course to arrive at this truly desirable knowledge. Undoubtedly 
you should take it then, and pursue it with all the wisdom you 
can gather in to your aid. Therefore, in doing it, you will not 
forget what 1 have said with respert to the thousands of false 
reports that may come up to your rnind, ^long disordered nerves, 
from all directions whatever, but especially from within. And 
the melancholy are the very patients, who, of all others, need to 
be reminded of this fact. Do not forget it then, for a moment, 
while noticing, and examining, and scrutinizing your feelings 
and symptoms. Call to your mind how you felt when well, and 
compare yourself then with yourself now. Do not only compare 
yourself with what you were in heilth, but, as you move along 
from day to day, eornpare yourself to day with what you were 
yesterday. This is the most promising and effectual way 1o dis- 
cover the nature of your disease, and what will most likely be its 
tendency and termination. Comparing it now with what it was 
sometime back. This, T say, is not only the best di'^gnosis, but 
prognosis, which I shall be able to mention, and to which you can 
resort, to learn what is the matter with you, and what will likely 
be the issue. 

When vou felt very bad som.e davs or some months back, 
you thought vour symptoms exceedingly alarminsr, and feared, 
and forboded the m )st serious consequences, perhaps immediate 
and fatal consequences, it may be you thoiioht that you would 
become helpless and no more be able to walk, &c*, or that vou 
would die in a few minutes. B'U now yo»i know that you were 
misiaken, for these things did not happei) to you. In this way 



THE AFFLICTED. 243 

if you are this moment very bad, you may form a pretty correct 
diagnosis of your disease or trouble, that is, a knowledge of its 
present state, and at the same time you may be able to form 
equally as correct a prognosis, that is, a foreknowledge of what 
wil! most likely beitsfuturestateand end. This is, in short. lepra- 
. ing by experience, and experience is given up by all to be -he best 
teacher, h will be a better teacher for you than this une or 
thati)ne, old men or old women, or even the doctors themselves. 
If v<m do not listen to the voice of experience aad believe it, you 
will not likely hear the voice of others, not even of ph} ^ieians, 
nor believe them lu this case others vviil know, and parti>u- 
larly the doctors, what is die matter with you: but you will not. 
This however will do you very litne good ; for if they do kn.»w, 
they can't help you. "To know y nv disease is half our cure." 
That is, to know it ourselves The melancholy must know it 
for themselves. Vi*u must know it f>r yourself, or it will not 
be, it cannot be hulf your cure. 

But this is the next method I shall advise you to take in 
order to know it yourself, to listen to the voices of ail others on 
the subject, young and old, ignorant and learned; and when 
you have heard, make the best \oa can of it; compare one 
opinion with an^the.r, and judoe wisely of the whole. 

The old proverb "What every body says is righ-,"has a cer- 
tain kind of correctness, and is by n;) means to be disregarded. 
If you mingle with mankind much, you will'hear the vo:i popuU, 
the voice of ihe people. The main and great current v)f this 
voice which will oe poured out upon vou, will most probably be a 
torrent of jes'ing and laughter. S.>me wisl tell you, you have 
got the blues, the dumps, the vapors, ihe horrors; orhers, that 
you have the spleoa, the hyp'>, the hysterics, &c. — that you are 
hyped or hystericy. You will be very apt to be irritated bv 
these clamorous and pastiffljrous jestings, particularly when the)' 
come from the more i;^n >rant. S.>me times your best way will 
be to pay them in their own coin, and throw back the joke upon 
them, and if you should raise a little laughtei; oetween you, it 
will d'» you n^ harm. They will be more serviceable to you 
however, as hist nnaus, by telling you what they have seen or 
heard of in others similiar to yo:ir case. You will hear from 
them a th i'hjand marvelous stories concerning the apprehen- 
sions, fear-i, forebodings, conceit;^ and alarms of those whose 
cases they will say yours resembles. Be patient and listen to 
them, they generally mean no harm but godd, and it will not 
be at all difficult for you to reap more or less good from them. 
As cases of trouble of the same class with yours, are alike 
oniy in some of their general teatures, and as they will tell of 



^44 CONSOLATIONS OF 

extreme cases, you will be very apt to think that yours has no 
resemblance to theirs. Y-ou will think, and perhaps know, that 
you never had such high vvrou';^ht conceits, and therefore 
come to the conclusion that yorr trouble is not of the nervous 
or melancholy order. But perhaps if you have not had so high 
conceits, if you will be honest and candid wiih yourself, you 
may discover that there is a slrosipr tendency in yoir mitid to 
magnify your trouble, to have some degree of conceit, if not 
the highest; if so, it wdi do you no good to deny it. I have 
already given you some general symptoms or rules by which 
you may judge pretty correctly, and iheir stories, in addition, 
will enable you tojudgsevyn m >re correctly. The physicians 
however are the persons from v/h m it is possible for you to 
receive much more ful I, certain and correct information There 
are two reasjns vvhy physicians generally do not communicate 
more freely than they do to patients, on the sulyject of diseases. 
The first is, that it would be against their interest — their prac- 
tice would be in danger of being reduced thereby. Should they 
make all as wise as themselves, ihey would not go to them for 
prescriptions. The other reason is that they believe in many, 
cases the patients had better not know what is the matter with 
them than to know; and this no doubt is true. They are i'u- 
prcssed too with the impropriety, and, generally speaking, with 
the unadvisableness of giving their patients a few detached 
scraps of medical kaowiedge, believing that it would do them 
more harm than good. This is their general course and prac- 
tice, but they themselves admit of some exceptions) particularly 
in chroni<* cases. When, they have done all they can for such 
patients, they some times let them know that now they must 
study their own case and do the best they can. And when they 
give them up to themselves, they communicate to them a4 the 
knowledge they can concerning their trouble. The correctness 
of this must be manifest to every reasonable mind.' Fou are 
a chronic patient, md unless there is soriGething very peculiar 
in your case, the })hysjcians will let you into all the secrets of 
it,which thev have been able to pry into themselves, w ithout they 
see that it v/ould do you more harm than good. But there is 
another wav still, more able and more independent for you to 
discover and know your disease. The way 1 mean is by books. 
You may have some in your own possession which treat on the 
subject of melancholy, under some of the names arid forms 
which I have enumerated. If you have not, the doctors have, 
and thev do not lock their libraries and will not forbid you to 
come into their shops and sit and read a little. If they should, 
or if this i? not convenient for vou^ there are other friends, whQ 



I 



THE AFFLICTED. "^^i^ 

have book^, and there are bookstores and public libraries to 
which you may have access. You will find most satisfaction 
in medical books, under the head of hypochondriasis, hysteriaj 
imaoination, on the effects of imagination on the nervous sys- 
tem, and mental derangement. Ahuost any cyclopagdia or 
encyclopaedia will con^iin all that is necessary for you. Rees^ 
is generally allowed to be the best. That work, or those works 
which handle the subject in ihe most practical manner,at the same 
time pretty fully, is the best for you, particularly that which is 
most historical, which gives the greatest number of examples 
and accounts of the mistakes, imaginations and high conceits 
of the melancholy. I am decidedly of upmion that the reading 
of these vviil enable you to shun mistakes, and false fears, and 
forebodings yourself; pariicularl} when they tell of such per- 
43ons getting along preity well, and getting better, when them- 
selves >ad not the most distant hope or expectation of any such 
thing 

But take notice, and do not forget that I f )rewarn and most 
seriously caution you against enteiing into minute, abstruse 
and difficult study on the subject. JS'othing wxtuld likely do 
3^ou more injury. The doctors themselves find that the decree 
- of the Almighty meet* them — saying, *'Thus far shalt ihou come 
and no farther," And there would be the highest impropriety 

, in your attempting to go as far as they can do. You are in no 
cooi'rdon at all to become a severe student. It is practical 

- knowledge mainly which I am advising you to seek, and I am 
confident that it may he of the most signal service to you. And 
the most striking and serviceable to you, which you will likely 
find any where, will be the history of animal magnetism. 
Animal magnetism was an invention of a certain man in 
France, by the name of M? smer, which invention had a very 
high standing there, in the year 1784. 

''This agent," which Mesmer pretended to have discovered, 
he affirmed, was ^'a fluid universally diffused and filling all 
space, being the medium of a reciprocal influence between the 
celestial bodies, the earth and living beings; — it insinuated 
itself into the substance of the nerves, upon which therefore it 
had a direct operation;— it was capable of being communicated 
from one body toother bodies, bo h animated and inanimated, 
and that at a considerable distance, without the i^si^tanoe of 
any intermediate substai^e; — and it exhibited in the human 
body some properties analogous to those of the loadstone, es- 
pecially its two poles. This animal magnetism," he added, 
*'was capable »f curing directly all the disorders of the nervous 
system, and indirectly other maladies; U rendered perfect the* 

21 



24^0 CONSOLATIONS OF 

operation of medicines, and excited and directed the salutar} 
crises of diseases, so that it placed these crises in the power of 
the physician. Moreover, it enabled him to ascertain the state 
of health of each individual, and to form a correct judgment as 
to the origin, nature and progress of the most complicated dis- 
eases." &c. Deslon, a pupil of Mesmer, also practised animal 
magnetism at Paris, and undertook to demonstrate its existence 
and properties. He commenced his instructions by reading a 
memoir, in which he maintained that ''there is but one nature, 
one disease and one remedy; and that remedy is animal mag- 
netism." This curious and most extraordinary invention, or 
rather delusion (as it was clearly found to be), performed so 
many marvelous and astonishing cures, and was carried to 
such an extent m Paris, that the French king appointed a 
committee consistngof four phisicians and five members of the 
royal academy of sciences, to investigate the matter, in th^ 
year 1784. 

Among the latter were Baily, Lavoisier and doctor Frank- 
lin, who was at that time the American minister at Paris. 
These learned gentlemen submitted to be magnetised themsei ve^ 
and bad others magnetised blindfold, in separate rooms, &c., &c., 
till they found, and were entirely satisfied, that it was a perfect 
delusion ;— that those that had been cured, were cured by the 
effects of their own imagination, and they were generally of the |j 
more i<rnorant class of mankind. Mesmer and Deslon perfor- f | 
med their cures by means of iron rods, and cords, and the Jock--^ 
ing of the hands of the patients, and by pointing their fingers at 
them, particularly the diseased part, and by music, &c., &c. 
This history will show you in the most striking and decisive 
manner the effects of the imagination on the nervous system, 
or, in other words, the power of the rnind over the body, and it 
Avill enable you to brace up against it. 

The next most astonishing and most marvelous history of the- 
kind which will call your attention, is that ofPerkinisra, which 
derives its name from its author, Perkins, an American of New- 
Eno-land. This extraordinary character and impostor, by the 
means of two small pieces of metal of different kinds, which he 
called "Tractors," performed some very extraordinary cures in 
New-England, simply by holding them to arid t.iuching in a 
o-entle manner the diseased part. Tractors means drawers or 
thino-s that draw. He gave tliem this name because he said 
they' drew out diseases when held to them or near them, and 
drawn slightly over the surface, without penetrating it in the 
least. 

After having performed some wonderful cures in his owr. 



TilE AFFLICTED. 247 

coimtiy, he came to the conclusion that he could do better by 
going over to England. He did so in the year Vj9Q. For his 
grand and glorious discovery and hasty and effectual method 
of curing diseases, '*he obtained the royal letters patent'' of 
that most enlightened nation; and immediately went to work 
as the great friend and restorer of the afflcted. "Multitudes of 
painfuhdisorders were removed, some most speedily, and some 
after repeated applications of the metalic pomts. Pamphlets 
were published announcing the wonderful cures accomplished 
by this simple remedy; and periodical journals and newspapers 
teemed with the evidence of the curative powers of the tractors; 
insomuch that in a course of a few months, they were the ?ub> 
ject of general conversation, and scarcely less general use. 
The religious sect of the Quakers, whose benevolence has been 
sometimes displayed at the expense of their sagacity, became 
the avowed and active friiends of the tractors ; and a public estab- 
lishment called the^Perkinean Institution," was formed under 
their auspicies, for the purpose of curing the diseases of the 
poor, without the expense of drugs or medical advice. The 
transactions of this institution were published in pamphlets, in 
support pf the extraordinary efficacy of these new instruments. 
In somewhat less than six years, Perkins (says an English 
writer) left the country in possession, as we have been informed 
on good authorithy, of upwards of ten thousands pounds, the 
contributions of British credulity; and now (181 1) the tractors 
are almost forgotteuo^'' Here was another brilliant display of 
the powers of the imagination over the body. 

These tractors were found to possess no real virtue at all by 
doctor Hay garth, a philosopher, to whom his profession and 
his country are deeply indebted for other and more important 
services. He had a couple of wooden tractors, made and 
painted so as to resemble the metallic ones as near as possible, 
and had them used on five patients who were greatly relieved 
by them. The metallic tractors were then used, and had si- 
milar effects on the same patients, and thus the whole matter 
was found to be a grand delusion. The cures of hundreds of 
pretenders by the laying on of their hands, &c., on the sick 
in modern days, is by the power of imagination. In the same 
way, the scrofula "was cured by the touch of the king, hence 
it has the name of the king's evil." The effects of magic, incan- 
tation, amulets, holy relics, &,c.^&c., are of the same character 

The powers of the mind over the body are also very strik- 
ingly displayed by the imitative propensities of man. With 
this, every person is acquainted in the simple and well known 
act of gaping or yawning. In company does one person yawn, 



'248 GONSOLATiozss or 

the next does, and the next, till all around have very sociabl> 
yawned. Happy were it if this were the worst thinor in which 
we imitate one another. Man imitates man in vice, and in dis- 
eases too. Every body knows that it is not safe to imitate a 
stuttering person, a squinting or winking person, lest you shonid 
catch the same disorder. '^Baglivi mentions a young m^^n, who, 
looking at a person in an epileptic fit, was himself affected in 
the same manner.''' 

Doctor Whytt says, "it has frequently happened in the 
royal infirmary here (at Edinburgh) that women have been 
seized with hysteric fits, from seemg others attacked wifh 
them.*' 4nd the story of the extraordinary cure performed at 
H terlem by the very famous doctor Boerhaave is wellknown. 
It seems that in a house of charity there, a girl, under an im- 
pression of terror, fell into a convulsive disease; a bystander 
intent upon assisting her, was seized with a similar fit. Oh 
the day following, another was attacked; then a third, and a 
fourth, until almost all the boys and girls in the house would 
be taken at the same time by these convulsions. Under these 
distressing circumstances the. physicians used all the antiepi- 
ieptic medicines with which their art furnished them, but all in 
vain. They then sent f jr Boerhaave. In compassion to the dis- 
tressed children, he repaired to the place, and while inquiring 
into the matter, one was taken, and another^and all. 

He saw that it was the efiects of imitation, and as the best 
medicines had been used in vain, he determined U> make the 
imagination counteract the imitative propensity. He had a 
number of red hot irons prepared, bent to a certain form, and 
with the utmost dignity, gravity, confidence and firmness, 
be told them that medicines could do them no good, and that the 
first one that had another fit should have his or her arm burnt 
to the bone with a red hot iron. The childern terrified at 
the thoughts of this cruel remedy, when they perceived any 
tendency to a recurrence of the paroxism, immediately exerted 
all then- strength of mind, and called up the liorrible idea of 
the burning, and v/ere thus enabled by the stronger mental 
impression to resist the influence of the morbid propensity.'*' 
One more case I will add. — A child of a certain man, who had- 
a large family was taken with Saint Vitus' dance, whereupon 
most of the other childi^en, when witnessing the other in a fit 
of it, would be seized with the same, and this continued for 
some time. At length, the father determined to put a stop to 
it an a short way. He got a block with an axe, and placed 
them convenient!^ and told the children with a firm and positive 
tone, that if any, except the first one^ did so again, he would-Civl. 



THE AFFLICTEi. 24S> 

q€ their heads on that block. — This was an effactual cure. 
And thus you see the power of imagination in curing, as well 
as of imitation in producing di&eases. The eiiects of the ima- 
gination and imitation upon the nervous and muscular systems, 
have long been known to take place with enthusiastic and fa* 
siatical professors of religion. That the Holy Ghost does operate 
upon the hearts of men, and that in so powerful a way as to 
make them new creatures in Christ Jesus, that is, true christ 
ians, here is no rea enable ground to doubt. And that the 
persons on whom he thus operates are differently affected, is 
eq lally plain. S >me are suddendly and more highly wrought 
up and agitated than others; some know the time of his com- 
mencement; others do not. But that these operations and ef- 
fects may be counterfeited and often are, is equally plain. It 
is possible for these counterfeit^' to proceed from the devil him- 
self; but I apprehend it is much more common for them to pro- 
ceed from a distempered imagination, and that tney can generally 
be accounted for on such philosophical principles as the fore- 
going. Tne church has, in most ages, b en disturbed and dis- 
graced by wild enthusiasts and fanatics. Such were in their 
commencement the Menonites, Anabaptists, French prophets, 
Quakers, Shakers and New-Lights of this western country, 
and others whom I will not delay to mention. The Shakers are 
. the most deluded fanatics in the United States of America, 
which at present disgrace the human understanding among us. 
In order for you more fully and satisfactorily to learn the effects 
of the mind over the body,, in all these different ways and res- 
pects of which I have spoken, for the purpose of knowing your 
own disease, and being much profited by that knowledge, I 
would refer you to medical books, medical journals, and to 
church histoiy. You will find them quite largely and satis- 
factorily treated upon in Ilees' cyclopaedia, under the articles — 
hypocondriasis, hysteria, imagination, imifaiio.i, nervous sys- 
tem, mental derangement, &c. And 1 would refer you to a 
little book, not many years since written in New-England by 
a Mr. Powers — *'Oii the effects of the imaginarion upon the 
nervous system." You will find this, plain, practical, full and 
^satisfactory on all the above points. 

By this coarse, my friend, if you arc not too far gone, — 
too deeply, inexplicably and inextricably involved and envel- 
oped in the thick glooms and dark clouds of melancholy, you 
may be nn;ibled and be successfij in doing much towards liiid- 
ing your own relief and cons )lation. 

The next idea which I shall offer to your view and considev 
rntlan f>r consolation, you and others, will perhaps consider * 

2 1 '^ 



159 CONSOLATIONS 01 

very extraordinary one. It is that your life will likely be Ibngv 
Neither I nor any other finite being can give you -any guaran- 
tee or security for long life. By some one of the thousand 
ways by which men are brought to their death, you may be, I 
cannot tell how soon, it is possible within a few hours. 

What I rnean b)* your having a prospect for long life, is that 
yoiir melancholy or nervous disease is not one of those diseases 
which take people off early. On the contrary, the long and 
general observation of mankind has been and is, that the lives 
of persons of this character are generally marked with longevity. 

This is the case while at the same time the\' themselves 
never think, or very rarely think, that they will live long. 
Indeed, they are the patients, who very frequently apprehend, 
and think, and believe that they cannot live long, that it is in- 
possible, that they must die in a few years, at the farthest extent. 
And how numerous are the examples of those among them, w^ho 
have apprehended, and firmly believed, and said thatdeath was 
upon them ; that the^ would be dead in a few minutes, that they 
were dying; and not a few have said, and positively affirmed 
and adheared to the affirmation that they were dead. Their 
coffii^s have not only been made for them, but they have been 
put into them, and the funeral procession have started off with 
them to their grave; but as it happens, they generally break 
out before they get into those cold, lonely, dismal cells, and . 
furiously chide those, who \vere carrying them thither. 

I have already explained the cause and manner of these their 
great and dreadful mistakes and errors, when speaking of the 
nervous system. 

If there is an object of pity to be found among all the suffe- 
ring mortals of the earth they present it. But enough on this 
point; what I have said is sufficient to show that it is not only 
possible for you to live long, bat probable that you will do so. 
The advantages of a long lite should it be given to you, and the 
consolation* which you may derive from it, will be that you will 
have time allowed you to study, and discover, and learn, and 
know your disease, as I have advised you to study it out, and 
thus be enabled to manage it. 

Again, you will have longer time and opportunity, not only 
to hope to recover, but actually to do so. Owing to the intense 
and almost invincible love of life in man, I exp^^ct this idea will 
not fail to console you. When you have a very gloomy spell, 
and feel like desponding and despairing of getting along ia 
any thing like a comfortable manner, it may console you to 
reflect and remember that the feeiings of all others do not^ 
'^bange and fluctuate as yours do. Suddenly end frequently 



THE AFFLICTED. 251 

getting worse and getting better, as I have before hinted to 
jouj will most likel}' be your constant course. 

And one of your spells will affect your mind, and make you 
feel gloomy, and like despairing, and giving up all, as comple- 
tely as a severe fever does a common patient. But you are in 
nothing like the danger that he is. It will be a consolation to 
you, I say, that all others are not tossed upon the winds and 
waves of irritable, uncertain and deceitful feelings as you are. 
Were they, and did melancholy hang upon their brows and 
becloud their faces as it does yours, it would make you worse, 
whereas being as it is, their Cvuntenances sharpen yours 

Furthermore, it will be no small consolation to you, that men 
and things generally do notehangv^ with your changes. — Creation 
moves on regularly, amidst all i^s varieties, in its straight forward 
course. — -The earth rolls — the sun, m«x)n r.nd stars rise and set — 
spring, summer, autumn and winter succeed e?<^li other, with the 
early and the latter rains — the bow is in the cloud — the earth is 
not drowned — *'seed time and harvest, and cold and heat, and 
day and night do not cease " Therefore, lift up your head, and 
be encouraged, O thou ^orrowfjil and gloomy one! Creation 
smiles, and how can you refrain? You need not suppose that 
others have not some troubles and i rials, as well as yourself, oi 
that they have not causes, greater or less, for melancholy. There 
is no one that is entirely without; notwithstanding, they hold up 
their heads, look cheerful, and smile, in the midst of this beautiful, 
splendid and smiling creation, which the great Creator has placed 
around his creatures here below. Busy and active in the morning 
they turn every one to his or her own emplovment,* until the 
"evening shades prevail/' and then all return for the repose of 
the night. And here rises to view thenext great source of con- 
solution, to which I shall most seriously, and most earnestly di- 
rect \our attention. This is, some suitable employment for ex- 
ercise, and to divert your thoughts from your trouble. 1 have 
already recommended it to the chronic patient. From a very 
extensive knowledge of the subject, and from the opinions of 
others, 1 consider this a matter of vital importance to you, and 
ihdispensible to your comfort and recovery. Neglect, refuse or 
reject this, and you have no ground to hope. If you are not con- 
fined to your bed, or if you can barely rise off it and walk, and 
this only at times, you should think of some useful, proper, and 
if possible, profitable employment, at which you might do at least 
a little. In vain will you think and say that you are too weak. — 
All experience loudly exclaims — take exercise! take exercise! if 
you can bm walk or creep a liitlo; and this especially to patients 
of your order. It is true that you do. at times, become ver^^ 



2o2 crox?oLATioNs of 

weak, but if you have no local disorder, or whethey or not, yo^ir 
weakness IS of a peculiar kind. It will both comeoh and go oft' 
quicker, than the weakness of patients laboring under other dis- 
eases. Sometimes when you may be so weak that you cannot 
rise up, in a few hours, yea, sometimes in a few minutes, your 
strength will come to yon, and }ou will be able to go almost 
wbere >ou please, and to do almost what yon please. Such is the 
peculiar and exiraordin iry nature of the disease. Perhaps 
some may think that it is not real weakness, but conceited weak- 1 
n^rss. Fo this I reply, that conceited weakness may be real; 
no matter, so it is weakness, whether the cause be leal or 
iniaginary. Imaginary pain may be as great as any kind, 
Adinitiiiig it to be true then, that you are in a very weakly state, 
it Will not at all follow, that you should not, at the proper times 
and seasons, exert yoursv If to take exercise. You may injure 
yourself by taking it impioperly, or too much, as well as by taking 
too little. By exercise strength is gained. But in the taking of 
it, th-e diverting of your mind from trouble, and occupying its tt- 
tention, 1 consider, for yen, of unspeakably great importance.^ 
Man was not made for idleness. In idleness he will work his 
own misery. If he has strength, he will be vicious — if not, but 
is confined to bis bed, his thoughts will go out and wander iu 
endless, and fruitless, and profitless vacuity; or will turn upon 
himself and pore, and pore, and pore over his own troubles, and 
thus magnify them. 

Therefore, no proverb or wise siying ever was spoken by the 
tongue of man, or written with a pen, more fully and strictly true^ 
than that one which says- -'^Idleness is the mother of mischief.^ If, 
then^ yon are determined to rivet helplessness,and misery, and ruin, 
upon yourself, so that no earthly means or power can ever unrivet 
them, sink riow^n and give up to absolute idleness. Or rather, are 
you determined and resolved to exert y<>urself to the last degree^ 
and the list moment, to shake off your troubles and to rise above 
them,rouh,e yourself up to ext^rcise, and to as constant and busy 
employment as your strength will at all admit of, and I will con- 
fidently predict, that the advantages which you will reap will bd 
great; You m-^.y do somethinsf tov/ar's earning your living, and 
not eat the bread of others. Or if you are as wealthy as Crcesus, 
and have no need of doing this, do it to gain the far greater and 
tar better riches of health and comfort. Do as J did in the days 
of my feebleness for months?, before I commenced the writing oi 
this book; do any of the light, ordinary concerns, affairs or works 
of lil^e, winch are useful and most needed, and which you can best 
do. And as I have done, in writing this book, for a greater numbei 
!?f months still • putting forth what, little str-^ngth I had to r!«e 



b 



THE AFFLICTEI>. ^2oo 



from the bed, and to creep away to tlie table or desk, and brace 
myself up to write, perhaps only one sentence, or it may be two 
or ihree, or a short page and then getting back again. Be very 
careful however, to turn your attention to that which you and 
others most seriously think, promises the most usefulness and 
good in the world, to yourself and others. 

Such is the intrinsic, and Ijmay safely say, indescribable excel- 
lence, of having the mind occupied and entertained, in cases like 
yours, by some useful employment, that the indolent, whose indo- 
lence is so great, that they will neither do nor attempt any thing 
of the kind, deserve no consolation whatever, however much they 
may need it. What is such useful, entertaining employment 
like, in its operations and elTects? ^1Ms like the effects of the 
indispensable vital air, which we breathe. 'Tis like the healthy 
flowing of our heart's blood through our veins and arteries. — ^'Tis 
almost an essential part of our life. Therefore, it is not onlv our 
du^y to do "whatever our hands find to do," to procure our livings 
or t) advance our own and the best interests of others, but our 
high privilege. 1 consider it, my friend, one of the best and 
most promising sources of relief and consolation, for yon. The 
greatest, best and last source of consolation to which I shall 
direct your attention, is the iiromises of the Bible. 

Melancholy! melancholy! indeed! would be this world of 
darkness and of wo, were there no world of light, nor any hope 
in man of attaining to that world. Had not the eternal King, 
who dwells in the world of light, who is benevolence and love 
itself, whose empire is the universe, with all its worlds, looked 
down in pity, and let fall a promise, to be seized and held by 
melancholy man. — Had not the kind angels sung their angelic 
song— "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, 
good will tow^ard men." And, had nor the Messiah, the Saviour 
come and fulfilled all the preceding promises concerning him- 
self, and given, from his own mouth, a vast multitude of encour- 
aging words and precious promises, assuring men that the world 
of light, was really attainable by them, and encouraging them 'o 
turn their faces towards it. But all these things have actually 
taken plice. The Bible abounds with promises, from beginning 
to end. — There's scarcely a leaf on which you cannot find one. 
A.nd man may look up, and lift his voice on high — saying — 

*^Yet save a trembling sinner, Lord, 
Whose liope still hov*ring round thy word, 

Wouid light on some sweet promise there. 
Some ?!.u*c support agtiinst despair." 



2i>4 CONSOLATIONS OF 

These pfomises are of two general characters. — First, to eii • 
courage men while here below, in all they have to do and suffer 
— and next, to hold out to their view, the bright and joyful world 
of light, for their entrance at their departure. And who of all 
the sons and daughters of men, need them more, than the doubt- 
ing, the desponding, the gloomy, the melancholy? None, and 
for them they wer^ specially written. Turn to them, then, my 
friend, and read them, and believe them, and embrace them, and 
hold on to them, and they will bear you up as the strong ship 
does the sinking, drowning man, when he has agnin obtained a 
firm hold of it. As the strong ship! — contemptible comparison! 
as the "everlasting arms" of the eternal God, underneath you. 
I will give you a few, for a specimen of the whole, and for your 
encouragement. 

"When thou art in tribulation, and all these things are come 
Upon thee, * * * * ^ if thou turn to the Lord thy God, 
and shalt bex>bedient unto his voice; (for the Lord thy God is a 
merciful God;) he will not forsake thee, neither destroy thee, nor 
forget the covenant of thy fathers, which he sware unto them.''' 
"in a little wrath I hid my face from thee, for a moment : bat 
with everlasting kindness will I have mercy upon thee, saith the 
Lord thy Redeemer. For the mountains shall depart, and the 
hills be removed; but my kindness shall not depart from thee, 
neither shall the covenant of my peace be removed, saith the 
Lord that hath mercy on thee, O thou afflictc d, tossed with tem- 
pest, and not comforted, behold, I will lay thy stones with foir 
colors, and lay thy foundations with sapphires. And I will make 
thy windows of agates, and thy gates of carbuncles, and all thy 
borders of pleasant stones." "Many are the afflictions of the 
righteous: but the Lord delivereth him out of them all. He 
keepeth all his bones; not one of them is broken. Evil shall slay 
the wicked! and they that hate the righteous shall be des okite. 
The Lord redeemeth the soul of his servants: and none of them 
that trust in him shall be desolate.'" 

These are the words that contain the promise — none of them 
that trust in him shall be desolate. Again — "He shall be like a 
tree planted by the rivers of w iter, that bringeih forth his fruit 
in his season: his leaf al«o shall not wither; and whatsoever he 
doeth shall prosper." "The &teps of a good man are ordered by 
the Lord: and hedelighteth in his way. Though he fall he shall 
not be utterly cast down: for the Lord upholdeth him with his 
hand " "When thou passest throiigh the waters, I will be with 
thee; and through the rivers they shall not overflow thee: when 
thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned: neither 
shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the Lord thy Godv^ 



THE AFFLICTED. 235 

the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour." "The Lord will strength- 
en him upon the bed of languishing: thou will make all his bed 
in his sickness.^' "And I will bring the third part through the 
iire, and will refine them as silver is refined, and will try them 
as gold is tried : they shall call on my name, and I will hear them : 
I will say, It is my people: and they shall say. The Lord is my 
God." Open your ears my friend, to these promises — "Blessed 
are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted^ Blessed are the 
poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are 
they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall 
be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. 
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." "He that 
loseth his life for my sake" (says Christ) "shall find it." "He 
that endureth unto the end shall be saved." "Thou shalt have 
treasure in heaven." "Shalt inherit everlasting life." "Be thou 
faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life." "To 
him that ovevcometh will 1 give to eat of the tiee of life, which 
is in the midst of the paradise of God. He that overcomelh 
shall not be hurt of the second death. To him that ovevcometh 
will 1 give to eat of the hidden manna, and will give him a white 
stone, and in the stone a new name written, which no man know- 
eth saving he that receiveth it." And what more could be 
promised, than is promised in the following passage^ — "To him 
that overcometh will I grant to sit with me in my throne, even as 
I also overcame, and am set down with my Father in his throne." 
1 vi^ill mention two more — the first of the two was giveu to Job, 
and will therefore suit you. "if iniquity be in thy hand, put it 
far away, end let not wickedness dwell in thy tabernacles. For 
then shalt thou lift up thy fice without spot; yea, thou shalt be 
steadfast, and shalt not fear: because thou shalt forget thy miseiy, 
and remember it as waters that pass away: and thine age shall 
be clearer than the noon day; thou shalt shine forth, thou shalt 
be as the morning. And thou shalt be secure, because there is 
hope; yea, thou shalt dig about thee, and thou shalt take thy rest 
in safety." 

The next, and last, that I shall propose for your consideration, 
is one which is sufficient of itself to revive and supporr the droop- 
ing spirits of the most melancholy person that can be found, if 
his or her melancholy does not go beyond the limits of melan- 
choly, in lo actual insmily ; or what is'worse, if he or she has not 
committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. It is tender and af- 
fectionate beyond paraPel, beyond comparison. It was breathed 
from the mild lips of the Prince of peace-— the Prince of life, to 
whom all power in henven j'nd earth is committed, and, who is 
'Mo to fulfil all his promises — always didj and always will«— 



256 consolatioins «f 

These are the sweet and soothing words, in which it fell from his 
sacved and holy hps — ^*^Let not your heart be troubled: ye b^^'lieve 
in God, believe also in me. In my Faihev's house are many njun- 
iHons: if it were not so I would have told you, I go to prepare 
^ place for you. And if 1 go and prepare a plice for you, I will 
cofije agv.in and receive you unto myself; that wliere T am there ye 
may be also." 1 conclude therefore, with the aapostle Peter — 
that ihere are given unto us — yea, unto you, many '"exceeding 
great and precious promises." 1 would s;;y then, to you, with 
the exhortation of this same ap(»stie — "Wherefore let them that 
suffer according to the will of God, commit the keeping of tlieir 
souls to him in well doing, as unto a faithful Creator." This 
closes all I can do or say for y(ni, my dear friend, attend to these 
things — hold up your head — ^^"be of good cheer" — lieat the clouds 
from about you — come forth into the light — he cheerful and 
lively — and all will be well, and end Vvcil And now I musl bid 
you an affectionate farewell. 
Sept. 2i}th, 1830. 

To all those who are conversant with the raelnncholy, and es- 
pecially to those who live with them, and more jespecially still, to 
their relations, who are with them, and deeply interested i-i them, 
I feel it to be my indispensable duty to say a word. My dear 
friends, it is a clear, manifest and unquestionable truth, that you 
can do more, much more for them, than they can for themselves. 
Is the proverb true? — '*lron sharpenoth iron; so a man sliirpen- 
eth the countenance of his frieiid!" Nothirg is more true. — 
Great! great! then, will be your power and influence over them, 
more restorative than all medicines besides, tkin any other cor- 
dial or balsam of life, if you will properly exert it. As \ have 
before hinted, the great law of kindness will be the best law to 
cTovern your condiKt towards them, 1 do not mean that you should 
caress them, and indulge them, to a weak, simple and foolish ex- 
tent. They should know their place and keep in it. Let the 
law of kindness then, be upon your tongues continually, and be 
plainly exhibited in your countenances, that they may at all times 
hear knd read it. Let your general carriage towards them be 
pleasant, cheerful, smiling. Exert all the ingenuity you possibly 
can, to rouse them to cheerfulness and life. There is roonj for 
as much ingenuity here, as in any other case. Be patient and 
persevering in your efforts . Do not despair yourselves too soon — 
hold on and hold out — do not give them up, and may success 
crow a your efforts. 

It will be recollected by the reader, that in the early part of 
^T'fcat 1 liavo said for the melancholy, 1 spoke of the disorders of 



I 



THE AFFLICTED. ?S7 

the mind being generally classed into two general classes~to-witt 
melancholia and mania. On mania, I have as yet, said nothing. 
1 must not however, close without saying, at least, a word, not to 
those who lahor under mania, for they are incapable of hearing 
me, (:is I remarked in the very beginning of my work.) but to 
th>se who have the charge and care of them. 1 have already said 
that mania is a Greek word, and meuns fury. Many other words 
are used which convey the same idea. The word in«Hne, is from 
the Latin, and simply means unsound. Delirium is from the Latin 
words, de lira, that is from the ridge. When their oxen in 
ploughing, would deviate from the right line, they were said to go, 
de lira. This was transferred to men when they would wander in 
their minds. The Latin word luna, means the moon, and be- 
cause the monn was supposed to affect the mind, when persons 
became much disordered in their minds, they were calh d lunatic. 
This word has been, and is still, much used in legal proceedings 
concerning the msane in England and America. They are also 
called mid. Haslam derives this word from the gothic language, 
and says it means fury, or furious. The word derangement, is a 
French word, and. means out of the proper course. The wo^d 
crazy, is a French word also^md means crxked, shatrered or 
broken into pieces, because the vulgar opinion was, that the mmds 
ot deranged persons were broken into fragments. All these terms 
are used to express that degree of mental alienation, which is so 
great, that the persons laboring under it, are no longer rational. 
The kinds and degrees of it are about as various and numerous 
as those that have it. 1 have, at my very outset, recognized this 
as the greatest natural, temporal afflicti(m, to which man is liable 
and subject on the earth. They are beyond the reach of written 
words — I cannot speak to them as I have to others. * But f can 
speak for them, and will now do it with a warm heart, with oil 
my heart. I will not aUempt, nor presume to tell, how their minds 
are affected, for this no body knows, nor can know. That their 
minds are not gone from their bodies, appears from the fact, that 
they frequently recover, and are rational again; and this circum- 
stance should be encouraging to all their friends. To all who 
have care over them, and management of them, relations, friends, 
attendants, nurses and physicians, f would respectfully but seri- 
ously say, that, as with the melancholy, so with the insane, the 
law of kindness is the best. I know that in governing them, se- 
verity is sometimes necessary and indispensible, but whenever 
kindness can reach them, it has the most hapf>y and restorative ef- 
fect of all things else. Therefor^, when there is an opening, he 
free and friendly with them — t^ilk familiarly to them, just ps if 
nothing were tlie matter, and bring to their view, things and cir 

9i> 







258 CONSOLATIONS OP 

cumstances which you thmk will please them; and this will have 
the greatest tendency to bring them to themselves. B<^' faithful 
to them in giving them proper food, ani keeping them cleanly, 
and in all things which you ha'>e to do for them. To physicians 
1 would say, try every thing else, before a severe course of medical 
treatment. Let change of scenery, and of company, and of dietj 
&c. entirely and clearly fail, before you commence it. Multi- 
tudes, multitudes of insane persons, and some within nxy knowl- 
edge, have been greatly mjured, by too hasty and too severe medi- 
cal treatment, and would have manifestly recovered better and 
quicker without it. And by it, insanity has been riveted on 
hundreds who would otherwise have got well. When you think 
then, of strong cathartics, of the lancet, of shaving the head, and 
piling on blisters, of soHtary confinement, and of the awful straight 
jacket; remember also, that they are still human, and capable of 
feeling; and, looking forward to the possibility of your being in- 
sane yourselves, do unto them as you would now wish others to do 
unto you, if you should actually fall into the same unhappy con- 
dition. Do not commence such a course with them, without you, 
with good and numerous counsel, deliberately come to the con- 
^clusion, that it is most advisable. Some of you, in the course of 
om practice, become very much hardened with respect to the 
feelings of others; and some of you have a strong propensity to 
try experiments, whenever an occasion offers, particularly upon the 
unhappy beings of whom 1 am speaking, you should resist such 
feelings and such propensities, lest you give way to the tempta- 
tion, and make such experiments unnecessarily, at the expense of 
your unhappy fellow mortals. May you be guided by sound mor- 
al motives, as well as the highest skill in all your treatment of 
them, and may your efforts, and the efforts of their friends issue 
in their happy restoration. . 

I have now accomplished my plan, and would say by way of 
conclusion. — All over the earth, wherever the afflicted are to be 
found, and whatever be their afflictions, may they do all that is in 
their power to console themselves. May their relations, friends, 
and acquaintances console them. May good men and good wo- 
men console them. May kind invisible spirits console them 
May God Almighty himself, ''the God of all comfort,^' who can 
give "everlasting consolation and good hope through grace," be 
ploMsed to pity and console them, in time and through eternity. 

Sept, 2\st. 1830. 

js/'ote. — Almost as often as there are sentences in this book, I have piayed 
that God would bl^ss me hi tlie writing of it, and now as I am writing the last 
sentence and word, my most earnest and devout prayer is, thai he may make v- 
a blessing to mankind. 



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